


Luck Dictates

by SandrC



Series: Not Another Fanfiction Collection [4]
Category: Not Another D&D Podcast
Genre: Universe Alteration, What-If, sorrynotsorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 14:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17164121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: My life closed twice before its close—It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveilA third event to meSo huge, so hopeless to conceiveAs these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven,And all we need of hell.—Emily Dickinson(An exploration into bad ends and alternate outcomes by roll of the dice.)





	1. Blood on My Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fangirlsftw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlsftw/gifts).



> God in heaven above, I got this in my noggin and couldn't let go. So here ya go, three or four people who read NADDPOD fics here. A collection of alternate outcome fics.
> 
> The first one is set in our favorite arc: the Galaderon Saga! Specifically, Trial By Combat! I'm a terrible human being, JSYK. I am, after all, Regis of Angst.
> 
> What if Moonshine couldn't find the words to convince the shitty boy-king to postpone Beverly IV's execution? Well I'm sure that Akarot would have had a champion for sure. And much sooner than you'd expect...
> 
> Warning: disassociation, death, graphic gore, emotional manipulation, Beverly saying swears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The loss of a parent is a terrible one. You'd sell your soul just to see him avenged, wouldn't you?
> 
> (The Brothers Bright — Blood on My Name)

Beverly's body halts and he screams internally, mind railing. Blood rushes down his face and he can't see can't move _can't_ —

The Crag is there, axe in hand, grinning grimly. He's covered in dried blood and plant matter and yet he's there, _fine_ , _okay_. His hands tighten around his axe and he turns.

_I'm still here! Don't leave me! Don't run! I'm here! Not yet! **Not yet!**_

People are saying things but he can't hear it through the humming and crashing of waves in his head. His blood pumps louder than Hardwon, than Moonshine, than his dad. His dad? _His dad!_

The Crag tightens his grip and rears back over his daddy and Beverly wants to scream, to howl, to rush down this man that is hurting him so badly _so badly **so badly!**_ His axe comes down and he can feel Hardwon say something, can feel Moonshine say something, drowning in the drumbeat of his heart in his head, pushing blood across his body, dripping across his hair and his skin crusting up everything but it doesn't matter.

Because the Crag's axe comes down and his daddy's head comes off and Bev sees red and black and _hate and—!_

Something feral breaks free and Beverly snarls, lunging forward with an energy he had all but lost. On all fours, Bev scrambles forward, weapon forgotten, and sinks his teeth into the Crag's shoulder, tearing ripping out the hate the hate the hated skin and flesh of the thing the monster the murderer that killed his dad his dad _his—!_

Whatever remains of Bev inside of this thing is aware of the danger of rage and fear and blood. Whatever remains of Bev inside of this thing can hear his friends call out for him to stop, to breathe, to _think, young Bev!_ Whatever remains of Bev inside this thing _doesn't care_ because his daddy was _proud_ of him and _loved_ him and this thing _killed_ him and he _had to pay!_

Blood for blood _for blood **for blood.**_

He would pay _would pay **would pay.**_

Teeth and claws and feet and fury. Beverly, feral, angry, pained, _everything_ , headbutts the Crag and revels in the satisfying crunch of teeth against teeth through tongue. Blood sprays out of the Crag's mouth and Beverly is vindicated but not enough not enough _never enough!_

 _Nothing_ would be enough. _Not for this_. Never never _never never **never!**_

He screams and reels back, pulling away to go again. His fingers are talons are claws taking blood and skin and pain from this thing that fucking _murdered his father his daddy his **everything!**_ His feet hammer into the Crag's chest over and over, the beat of a war drum equal to his blood pounding and he wants more than anything before to kill to kill _to kill this man to kill **this thing—!**_

Teeth snapping around in the air, Beverly is picked up by warm arms and soft words, mushrooms filling his vision. He struggles and writhes, _needs_ to be free to take the life the love the _everything_ of this man who _took his father from him_ but there is a humming and the feeling of exhaustion and he droops, limp, and lulls. The world blackens and he hears Moonshine and Hardwon arguing and loud yelling and sees the blood-covered mess that he left behind and is _dissatisfied_ but his mouth is pennies and his eyelids are steel.

_Oh, Pelor, why have you forsaken me. Me, your child, in this, my time of need._

And the world becomes nothing and only he remains.

And he becomes nothing.

* * *

Only he _doesn't_. Or, rather, _it_ doesn't.

The world is _nothing_ but _something_. Beverly is _nothing_ but _something_. In a dark space, Beverly is covered in blood, injured and heaving and where his heart would be is a hole that ebbs and aches for something he _can't_ —

For his—

_No._

**_No!_ **

Beverly, in this nowhere space, rages and screams. It's animalistic and he runs and slams and throws _nothing_ and _everything_. He spits vile curses and howls in pain and loss and the hole in his chest aches with a tide like the ocean, ebbing and flowing in time with his frenzied pulse. Blood crusting his ears and his fingers and his mouth, pennies and iron and lead, he _screams_.

And he isn't alone any more.

In this nowhere space, there is a halfling, pale and washed out like a doll with no features or marks of any sort, with no face. Against the burning pulse in his chest that sends waves of red and fire and hate and kill and _unfair unkind foul fear fate fuck **kill kill kill**_ **,** the faceless, empty halfling bobs like a buoy in a wharf, unbothered by the movement and rage of his tide.

The nowhere place pulses, infinite and painful, rocked by the tide of sorrow and rage and _fuck I wasn't fast enough I'm **sorry** daddy I didn't do better I'm sorry I'm sorry **I'm sorry I failed you**_. Then the nowhere place is _smaller_ , more _comfortable_ , like a study with no discernible walls or floors or furniture. The pale, faceless halfling is no longer such. It stands, no longer at the whim of Beverly's own ennui, and faces him in this somewhere-nowhere place. It speaks.

" **Sit**."

The halfling that was blank is wearing fine gilt robes, red and black with threads of rose gold writhing upward in intricate patterns resembling veins or vines or fire that crept up the sleeves and length of it. Its face, once mannequin-blank, is now handsome and slender, golden lashes, full and framing crimson eyes, a sharp nose and thin lips crooked in a smirk, insincere but true. The halfling says again, gesturing to behind Bev, who breathes in jagged gasps like a man dying, " **Sit**."

He is _angry_ but not _an animal_. Beverly sits down as if a chair was behind him, not looking in this nowhere place, keeping wide and wary eyes trained on the halfling. The hole in him sings and stings and he bares his own teeth in a gesture of pain and passion. The halfling laughs, once, and nods.

" **They _took_ him from you. You couldn't do a thing and he _died_. It's _all their fault_ , isn't it Beverly?**"

If Bev answers verbally, he doesn't hear himself, but the snarling anguish that rips through him seems to set the halfling into a giggle fit.

" **Pelor _abandoned_ you. _Left_ you. _Let_ him _die_ and you want them to _pay_. Not _just_ the Crag, who dealt the blow, or Galad, who set the whole mess up. _No_ , you want the boy-king and his uncle and mother. You want the blood of the Chosen to dye the streets of Galadaron. You want to tear the heart of Thiala, should that craven bitch _still have one_ , and use it to fill in your own.**"

Beverly touches the hole where his heart should be. It is raw and burns and with each prodding digit he remembers details as small as the sightless way his father looked at him, smiling, _so proud_ , as his head rolled. He screams and howls and lunges at the halfling before him, hands claws.

He never reaches him, the nowhere space causing his jump to never end, trapped in stasis mid-leap.

The halfling laughs and gestures, the nowhere space depositing him back in his chair that does not exist. " ** _Temper_ , young Beverly. That's unbecoming, _isn't_ it?**"

Waiting is for people who have fathers that weren't snatched away in such a ripping painful tearing cleaving screaming _horrible_ way. Beverly clenches his hands and spits blood and bubbles on the nowhere floor.

" **I'll give you this information _free of charge_. Fathers are important, _aren't_ they?**"

A wave of pain explodes outward. Beverly wonders if the pain ever ends. If being _without_ ever feels less empty. If loss _ever_ feels better. The tide rocks him.

" **It _won't_ ,**" the halfling shakes its head and smiles. It feels hollow and cold and the ice in his disingenuous motion cools the fire in Beverly's gut. " **But that's _not_ why I'm here. My name, because I know yours but you don't know mine, is _Akarot_. And I have an offer for you.**"

Beverly speaks at last, head tilting to indicate his confusion, " _An offer?_ "

" **Anger is _power_ , Beverly. You're angry about your father and, _well_ , I _understand_ that. Fathers are...well, where would we be _without_ them? Like Hardwon, _probably_. Wild...untamed... _empty_...**" The void in Beverly's chest pulses and aches, longing, missing. Akarot smiles again. Every smile he smiles is so unlike the truth and yet without a lie that Beverly finds himself confused by the dichotomy of it all. " **And _I_ can offer you power.**"

Power to tear and rip and kill and take his vengeance his right his blood for blood for _blood_? Beverly says nothing but the hole in him screams and begs for something, _anything_.

" **You devote yourself to a god that let bad things happen and now you're lost. I'm offering you an _alternative_. Devote yourself to me and, _through_ me, you will have access to my father's rage and fury and power and _pain_ , and it will be _tenfold_ what Pelor could have _ever_ offered.**" Akarot leans back in his not chair in this nowhere space, a sly relaxed feel to him. He gestured with one hand. " **Devote yourself to _me_ instead of a god that has not stepped foot in this plane since its conception and you'll have the support of someone who knows the suffering, the pain, the _truth_ of this realm and its inhabitants. Pledge to carry my will and my rage and my fire and I will offer you the head of _everyone_ that had a hand in his death. What can _Pelor_ offer you that would match this?**"

A small part of Beverly, the part that echoes with I'm proud of you over and over again with a hollow bell ring, knows the truth of this honey and vinegar trap. The rest of him, buffeted this way and that by the hollow hate and horror and fear and pain, knows the truth of this boon. Power for vengance. _Who cares_ who offers it?!

Akarot, who _surely_ can sense his thoughts and intent, smiles again. His red eyes flicker as candlelight with no warmth and his steps forward in this nowhere space and holds his hand out. " **Take my hand,** " he says, even, metered, warm like magma beneath the crust, " **and take my power. Become my champion and, should I call on you, answer with _speed_ and _ferocity_. Become an anti-paladin, Beverly, and _change_ the world to suit you. _Make them pay_. Make them _owe_ you their lives and the pain will slow. I promise you _will_ have them _all_ , as is your _right_.**"

Beverly doesn't stop to think, despite the screaming inside him that wants him to wait to think to consider to worry _no no this is sacrilege you're selling yourself to the devil_! He stretches out a blood-crusted hand and shakes Akarot's own. Akarot's face splits wide with a grin and he drags a clawed finger inside of Beverly's palm, cutting deep a symbol so profane yet warm and familiar. Finished, the warm eyes of the devil's son met Beverly's again and he nods.

" **Rain fire on them, Beverly, and make them see the error of their ways. And tell Thiala that Ilsed says ' _thank you_ '.**"

And Beverly is _nowhere_ again.

And Beverly is _nothing_ again.

* * *

Galad Rosell scrabbles backwards on all fours, Rosaline cast aside in the tides of battle. His eyes wide, he looks back and forth between Hardwon, Moonshine, Ol' Cobb, and the advancing Beverly. He laughs, breathy, afraid, as the wash of _whatever it is_ that Beverly has become swallows him with each advancing step. He's drowning in fear and gripping horror. His heart seizes and stutters. He utters a quiet prayer to Thiala to deliver him but Beverly, sword in hand, leans close and grins in a wholly disingenuous way.

"Your goddess is a _fake_ , Galad Rosell, and I am here to prove it." His words are metered and calm but his aura is anything but. Galad swallows a scream, a plea, a whimper.

"She _will_ come. She _is_ coming! Thiala will cleanse this world of the impure and _only the righteous will remain_!" It's futile, an attempt to feel like he's not drowning in the darkness that this small halfling gives off with his dark eyes glowing red in the low light.

Beverly grins that grin again and kneels to be eye-level with Galad. He laughs, once, and shakes his head. "To think I _admired_ you once. _Pathetic_." His words, cold, empty, bite far less than the blade did during combat. "Where is she coming? I have a message to deliver to your false god."

"Th-the square. She will descend in a bright light and bring with her the promised truth to all who were loyal and true!" He wants to lie, to flee, to _run_ from this _monster_ in a child's skin, but he's stuck, pinned against the wall with a blade in his way. So Galad talks and talks and _talks_. "But you _can't kill me_! No! If you kill me, what happens to the Widow? What happens to _your mother_ , Elias, if she doesn't fulfill what she promised her false god?" He's desperate and it shows. Elias Stormborn Jr.—or Hardwon Surefoot or _whatever_ he's going by—freezes, eyes wide, and Galad knows he's got someone by their nuts. He _knows_ he has leverage.

" _I_ —you're trying to _trick_ us!" Elias looks between his friends, panicked.

The older Crick fucker, the one with the gun, shakes his head. " _Nah_ , he's not. If she doesn't kill him herself, her god will send her to wander the Astral plane for all of eternity, lost and confused."

The younger Crick utters a pathetic oath as Elias shakes with some sort of weakass emotion. _So easy_ to draw them forth when you dangle family and love in front of someone. "If I die, she _disappears_. She will have _broken her oath_! So you _can't_ kill me! _You can't!_ "

His breath comes in gasps, panicked hyperventilation that stagger his words. His laughter bubbles forth, panicked despite—or, rather, _in spite_ —of the thing that cannot be that Green Teen from a day ago. That child with a monster inside of it who drives the blade into his gut, cold and practiced. No remorse.

" _Get fucked_." Beverly says, despite his team yelling behind him. His voice is deeper, more raw, and Galad can see, for one moment, a profane sigil carved into the flesh of his lead hand. He knows that sigil and it makes him laugh hard enough that he spews blood.

" _You_ —! You say _I'm_ unholy, impure?! You've _sold your soul_ , Beverly! And for _what_?!" Even dying, blade in his gut, Galad finds the time to gloat, to talk, to laud his victory over others. Even if it's not a victory in as many words. " _Revenge_?!"

"None of _your_ concern. I'll have it soon enough." Beverly stands up, taking his sword and Galad feels his skin catch fire and burn and wither with the movement. " _Fuck off._ "

As the darkness swallows him, warm and inviting, Galad takes with him the knowledge of two things. One: the Widow will _never_ have rest, and this will haunt her son. Two: _whatever it is_ that Beverly has become will consume him from the inside out. His teammates will _never_ be able to accept it. And this is enough to make it worth it.

Even if Thiala is not the one that greets him as his breath fades to nothing.


	2. Luck Be A Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if the Deck was less kind?
> 
> What if the Deck was a little more capricious?
> 
> Fate's a fickle thing, isn't it?
> 
> (Frank Sinatra — Luck Be A Lady)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Deck of Many Things is scary. The Deck of Many Things is wondrous.
> 
> The Deck of Many Things is the easiest thing to manipulate into a shitty situation out of everything there. Never mind Akarot. Never mind Ulfgar's weird prison gem. Never mind Sky Hitler and her Chosen foot soldiers.
> 
> The Deck is the best thing to play with.
> 
> I mess with some card meanings because I want to and, with narrative stories, I need to. The Fool in game means that you lose like...10K EXP which, if you don't do EXP leveling, is useless. So I change that to Feeblemind. The Moon is literally the Wish spell. Be literal y'all. Wish is at the whim of your DM.
> 
> I'm mean here.
> 
> Um...thank you for liking this. Those of you that did. Don't do the Deck of Many Things. It's worse than R.KANE y'all.
> 
> Warning: magical manipulation to reduce a character to intellectually animalistic, and emotional trauma.
> 
> Edit: removed the last chunk. Didn't like it as much. Gonna make those two chunks their own extended chapters later. Keep an eye out lmao

When Moonshine draws, her face lights up. "Ho- _lee_ -fucking-shit!"

" _Hm_?" Beverly leans over her shoulder to see the card in her hand. It features a large, intricately patterned half-moon over a dark blue background, clouds floating behind it. It also radiates insanely powerful enchantment magics. "What's that?"

The gnomish merchant, if he's upset, doesn't show it. He just claps his hands together in appreciation. " _What luck!_ You've drawn the Moon! According to the phase here, you have _two_ uses of _Wish_ , which is the most powerful spell that any wizard could learn!"

"Holy fuck, _two uses_?"

" _Yep_!" The merchant nods and Hardwon allows himself to look impressed. "Pretty damn lucky, to draw _that_ one! Caveat though," he holds up a finger, indicating the Deck itself, "you _have_ to use the _Wishes_ before you return the card to the Deck and, while you lot are _fun_ and all, _I've_ got business to attend to. You've got about, _ehh_ , ten minutes to make your Wishes or they're forfeit."

Moonshine falls silent, thinking heavily. There are _so many things_ she could _Wish_ for. She just has to pick the right ones. Standing in front of her, looking antsy, is Hardwon. A wave of inspiration hits her. " _Okay_! I got one!" The merchant nods his head, indicating the card itself. "I wish that Hardwon's parents were here 'stead of the Astral Plane." A faint shimmer of arcane energy washes over everything and the world settles. The moon on the card shifts to waxing crescent and Moonshine sighs. Then Beverly coughs and indicates the surrounding area with a tilt of his head.

 _You know what to do_ , his eyes say. She _does_.

"And I wish the Crick Rot was cured and gone _forever_!" Her last _Wish_ made, Moonshine hands the card—now showing a new moon—back to the merchant, who nods approvingly.

"Some good _Wishes_! Selfless, _for sure_! Not too many of your kind willing to use them like that!" Before they have a chance to ponder that note, he turns to Beverly. " _Your_ draw, young man!"

"Oh! _Um_ , okay?" Hands shaking, suddenly aware of the power of the Deck, Beverly draws a card free and stares at it with confusion. It's a tableau of someone in heavy armor, sword extended to protect. "I, _um_ , got this one."

"The Knight!" The gnomish merchant nods and smiles. "Shouldn't be long for that!"

There's a ripple in the fabric of reality and a greying halfling in heavy armor steps out of nowhere, looking confused. He locks eyes with Beverly and bends his knee. "Master Beverly!"

Bev is immediately uncomfortable. He chuckles but, before he can say anything, the area dims and becomes cold. Wind picks up and the world seems to tilt on its axis. A faint cry echoes in the space around them.

"That's my cue!" The merchant grabs his things and sets off at double-pace. "Remember that you only have yourself to blame! I didn't _make_ you draw!" And he's gone before the Band can figure out what he meant.

But they find out anyway.

The world warps and bulges like something is trying to escape and then, in the general shape of two humanoids, about middle-sized, the world parts. There, deposited into the clearing, are two wispy figures. Both are shapeless, then vague, then defined, like a picture coming into focus.

Both are familiar in a _painful_ way.

Moonshine lets out a soft gasp. "I didn't _mean_ —"

" _M-mom_?" Hardwon is almost inaudible. His face is the palest either of them has seen it. Ever. And his hands shake as he fights the urge to reach out, especially when his gaze locks on the other figure. " _Dad_?"

" ** _Elias_**?" The Widow, Lydia Stormborn, looks at and seemingly _through_ , Hardwon, who staggers slightly at her tone, her movement. This is not the Widow, who cut through Chosen like butter and slit her own throat to reform away from danger. This is not the idealized version of a mother that Hardwon held so close to for so long, maternal and warm. This is the _literal fucking ghost_ of Lydia Stormborn as she was in life. The person Hardwon never actually got to meet.

Elias Sr. looks at Hardwon as well, his hand reaching out to grasp his wife's. " _That's...you...how...?_ "

" _That's our son_ ," Lydia says and her voice is a memory of a voice, dry and cold. Moonshine is openly sobbing, shaking as Beverly wraps his arms around her and watches Hardwon closely. " _That's our **boy** , Elias_."

Hardwon has no words. His mouth is dry and his legs can hardly hold him up, let alone move. He just stands there, body wracked with everything and nothing and the terror of knowing and the fear of _no_ , you _don't_.

" _He looks **just like you.**_ " She sounds so proud. She sounds _so proud of him_ and it _hurts_.

" _Fucking got tall!_ " Elias Sr. jokes in a way that Hardwon can hear in Red's voice when he laughed about ' _one last job_ ' and it's so foreign and familiar that he'd know what it feels like but not all at once?!

Terrifying and gratifying and painful _all at the same time._

" _He was a **baby** last you saw,_" Lydia chided. She's sad about that. It's easy to tell. " _Red did me well, putting you in Irondeep like he did_."

" _Put meat on him, I'd assume! Didn't get that from me **or** you, did he?_" Elias Sr. nods at his wife and she elbows him in the ribs. He laughs and it's _the worst thing_ Hardwon has _ever_ felt, this empty hole inside of him, laid bare.

Because it's easy to miss parents when no one has any. It's easy to miss your own when you've never known them. It's easy to want when you see a happy couple dote over their injured son. It's easy to want a _concept_.

It's harder when you're shown the cookie-cutter that took a chunk of you and told ' _here you go; The cookie is gone but the shape remains_ '.

He can't touch them, can't _hold_ them. Ephemeral. Painful.

She had asked for them to be _here_. Not _alive_. _Not_ okay. _Here_ instead of the Astral Plane.

So they were here.

Ghosts.

And nothing else could be done about it.

So what had happened to the Crick Rot? What had gone wrong there?

You always watch your words for Wishes.

Always.

_Always._

**_Always._ **

* * *

Beverly's card is a blonde-haired man in bright clothes, a bindle over his shoulder and a dog at his heels. It only takes a moment before the magic of this card takes hold and the merchant starts explaining.

But he stops listening.

He doesn't _need_ to.

He's _here_ and he has his Friends and it's Okay.

Or not. It's hard to tell.

Bev's Friends are making loud noises. Angry noises. They surround the small one and make angry noises again. Big Friend grabs his large sharp thing and points it at Bev. Makes loud noises. Big Friend makes more loud noises and shoves the small one. The small one grabs his things and runs. Bev's Friends make more loud noises after him.

It's Okay though, coz he's with them. Bev has his Friends. They have him!

Bev will keep his Friends _safe_.

Mushroom Friend sits down and pats her lap. Bev scrambles to her and sits in her lap as she makes soft noises and pets his hair and fur. Mushroom Friend makes noises that rise and fall and Bev feels safe and warm and soft here, in her arms and that's Okay. That's Okay.

Big Friend sits down too and makes noises at Mushroom Friend, who makes noises back. Their noises are back and forth and fast and hurried. Mushroom Friend goes back to making those warm, rising falling noises, and Bev feels his heart slow. He feels safe. He feels safe.

Big Friend gestures at Bev and makes noises that rise at the end. He pulls his face-fur and makes more noises, lower and more clipped. Did Bev do something _wrong_? Bev is doing his best! How can Bev do better?

Mushroom Friend pats Bev on the head and makes rising falling noises again. Soothing noises. It makes Bev feel better. Safer. _Warmer_.

If Mushroom Friend thinks its Okay, then Bev _knows_ it's Okay.

So Bev settles and Mushroom Friend continues petting Bev and making noises at Big Friend. Her noises are softer, lower, slower than Big Friend's, which are still fast and clipped. Big Friend looks sad and Bev wants to help but Bev is tired so Bev sleeps in Mushroom Friends arms, Scramble Friend in his grasp.

When Bev wakes, Big Friend is making loud noises and stomping. Confused, Bev walks to Big Friend and grabs his top-cover. Bev tries to make noises at Big Friend but Bev can't, because Bev doesn't know how to make noises like Big Friend and Mushroom Friend, so he just makes noises like Scramble Friend. Big Friend stops and drops down and wraps up Bev in his arms and holds Bev close. He hugs Bev and shakes and makes low, soft, slow noises and his face-fur is wet and Bev's own fur is wet and Bev knows that Big Friend is Not Okay and Bev has to fix that but not now.

For now, Bev will let Big Friend hold him and then Bev will let Mushroom Friend pet him and then Bev will chase Scramble Friend and maybe even see One Eye Friend again! And then it will be Okay because Bev is going to make everything Okay.

Because Bev loves his Friends and will always, _always_ protect them.

 


	3. Everything at Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Hardwon's R-CANE habit had more...unique payoffs than just...bad casts of high-level spells?
> 
> I mean, Wild Magic is a bitch, after all.
> 
> (Lenka — Everything at Once)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, much like the previous chapter, was gonna be several small alterations showing differences in Wild Magic Surge but, when it came down to it, I liked the finality of this one.
> 
> Look, Wild Magic sorcerers are wild as hell to play and I love the concept of Surges. If you're like me, please, for the love of god, check our DNDND, an actual play podcasts with a wild magic sorcerer that yields amazing results.
> 
> Anyway, this is an older homebrew surge from a list I had for my own sorcerer, a Grung named B'asco who is definitely a wizard, how dare you?!
> 
> If I'm being honest, I like racial swapping and Freaky Friday bullshit more than life itself so sue me :/
> 
> Again, I do a bigger hit on Bev than anyone else. He's just an easy target, really! I'm living that "kill your darlings" philosophy.
> 
> Spoilers for Ezry and the beginning of the Watchman.
> 
> Warning: body dysphoria, sense overload, and self depreciating humor

The buildup to Hardwon's Surge is palpable, like ozone on the tips of the casters' tongue. The world bends and warps and then, like a burst balloon, pops. The magic fills the world and twists around them and hums and sings and then everyone's skin crawls with Wild Magic, like a secondary skin or a light coat.

And everything is wrong.

For Hardwon, the world is too bright and too loud, and suddenly everything hurts. He's blind and deaf and his ears slam flat against his head to try and block it all out. His ears—

_His—?_

Beverly hisses, stretched thin like taffy, like bread dough, like stickybun honey drawn between rods. His head hurts and his body feels like he's been beaten within an inch of his life. As he stands, staggering underneath a shift in weight he can't seem to understand, he whimpers. And then he _continues_ standing. _And continues._ His tail writhes in confusion. The ground cuts into his too-tender feet.

Moonshine is suddenly nauseous, doubled over and heaving, the ground _mere inches_ away from her nose as sour spit dribbles down her chin. As her body shudders angrily to try and feel better, she pulls at her overalls, loose around the shoulders but tight in the ass. Her ears slam flat as her whiskers quiver, tail thrashing in her too-tight, too-loose overalls. She spits, stands up, wipes drool away, and shrieks in surprise.

A halfling, an elf, and a human walk into a bar. The human does hard magical drugs and, after all is said and done, a tiefling, a gnome, and a drow walk out. It's not a _great_ joke, but it is a real problem for the Band right now.

Hardwon, to his great joy, is dimensionally the same. No taller, no wider, no extra shit for him to have to worry about vis-a-vis limbs and or clothing alterations. _Admittedly_ , he can't see for shit and the world is just _too much_ at the moment, so he's doubled over, swearing in soft, muttered Dwarven, but that's moot. He's _probably_ got it easiest of the three.

Moonshine takes _approximately_ three whole seconds to reconcile " _me_ " with " _gnome_ " because Wild Shape will accustom you to changing your form. Then she starts altering her overalls by drawing the straps up and around until they're _much_ tighter around her shoulders. _And_ , noting the way that her new tail was trapped in the ass-area, she strips them off long enough to cut a slit for it, then replaces them. It _probably_ doesn't help that the whole time, Pawpaw is yammering on at a breakneck speed and, because, _yanno_ , gnome, Moonshine can understand him.

" _Holy gotdang shit, hoo, is that all a'y'all I can't believe y'all went and did that! Mebbe don't let Hardwon do them drugs no more but like I'm losin' my dang mind right now and I dunno how y'all're not flippin' your shit but like I dunno, maybe two-legger folk are better at pretendin' they're okay? But like y'all're all so dang big but now you ain't and I dunno what the sweet fuck is up but if y'all ain't flippin' out too bad then maybe it's aight but don't quote me on that, kay?_ " He doesn't seem like he needs to breathe and, _dammit_ , Moonshine's head is starting to hurt.

" _Pawpaw_?" She calls out, pulling her overalls back up and refastening them, tail poking out the new hole. "Can you either _shut up_ or go bother Hardwon? He looks like he could use a snugglin'." Pawpaw's ears shoot up but, _thank Melora_ , he nods instead of speaking and scampers off to nuzzle him.

It's _probably_ Beverly who's having the worst time of it. Going from about three feet tall to about seven is bad, _especially_ if it's in the span of approximately a few minutes. So not only is he dealing with the shift of gravity that comes from growing upwards, but his _whole body_ aches. And, in the _most worrying_ way, he can't seem to feel okay about the change in skin color or the way that his feet hurt or the fact that he's naked now. He's just _super fucking naked_ now.

Beverly is curling in on himself and has drawn his knees against his chest. He's not moving, which is _bad_ , but _seems_ lucid enough, his new spade-tipped tail wrapping around his ankle. His previously fitted armor is like wearing a crop-top, barely covering anything, leaving his navel exposed. His underwear and pants are _completely_ gone. _Just_...shredded to tatters.

He's also got his eyes closed and is breathing in short, asymmetrical gasps, clawed fingers curled in his hair, avoiding his horns entirely.

Moonshine, adjusting quicker than the other two, stomps her way to Beverly and scrambles up his knees. It's _weird_ , being the smallest of the group now but, _ehh_ , she'll manage. Once she's gotten to be eye-level, tail crooked in a question mark, she reaches out and pats his head, mindful of the new horns poking out of his hair.

Beverly whines something unintelligible and tries to pull away but Moonshine grips on with all of her and sits still on his lap. " _Bev_ ," she says, slow, calm, "you need t'breathe deep now. Can you do that for me?" He doesn't acknowledge her, but she continues, regardless. " _In_ , two, three, _out_ , two, three. C'mon youngun. _In_ , two, three, _out_ , two, three."

Even if he won't speak, his breathing evens out and Moonshine can feel her own heartbeat level, her fear for Bev dissolving with each exact breath.

"Okay, _good_. Y'feel better?" He nods, once, whimpering slightly. "Good, _good_."

Behind them, Hardwon holds tight to a very silent Pawpaw, string of Dwarven swears done. Another boon. Moonshine was praising Melora at this point. Everyone is calmer. _Bless_.

"You wanna _talk_?" Moonshine asks, head tilted. Beverly shakes his head. "You think _Pawpaw'll_ help?" He nods. "You want clothes, lil Bev?" _Another_ nod. Satisfied, Moonshine hops off his knees and scampers over to Hardwon.

Hardwon's ears lift at her approach and he turns to face her, eyes widening as he takes in what she looks like at the moment. " _Fuck_ ," his voice is a low whisper but, even so, his ears slam against his head and he grimaces.

"Two things—well, _three_ , but we'll worry about the third _after_ everyone's up and running again—" Moonshine gives Hardwon the sincerest smile she can muster. " _One_ : let the scrambleboy go so he can comfort Bev, who is having one _helluva_ day." Hardwon let go of Pawpaw, who blows a little possum raspberry and darts off to Beverly. " _Two_ : you got any clothes that'd fit him now?"

Hardwon squints over at Beverly, face contorting in confusion. "Is he... _bigger_?"

"Bout _your_ size, t'be honest? I mean, I went and lost about two feet so I wouldn't be _too_ surprised."

"And he _needs_ —?"

" _Clothes_. His tore when he shot up after your Surge kicked in. Prolly embarrassed as _fuck_ right now." Moonshine hums and taps her claws against the cobblestone streets of Ezry. "It's a good thing we wandered off before this hit though. It'd've been a riot _for sure_ if we'd been in any sort of company during the transition."

" _Yeah_ ," he says, but he's already elbows deep in their packs, looking for something for Beverly to wear. "I don't know _how_ you handle these ears!"

"Mine don't move _quite_ that much," Moonshine says, keeping an idle eye on Pawpaw and Beverly.

"And the _light_?"

"You're a drow. Them's _dark_ elves, used to underground living. You're light-sensitive _by nature_ now." Hardwon lets out a hum of confusion but continues rifling. He pulls out a shirt and pants for Beverly, still unsure about the dimensional aspects of the two. "I _will_ say I'm not too keen on the tail."

" _Yours_?"

Moonshine laughs, once. "Has a mind of its own, really."

" _Done_." Hardwon gathers the clothes up and nods at Beverly, who has accepted Pawpaw's company with childlike fear, clutching the poor possum to him like a lifeline. Pawpaw's eyes are bugging out. _Poor thing._ "Shall we?"

"Unless you want the kid to _remain_ nekkid?"

" _Not really._ "

As they get closer to Beverly, Moonshine catches some of Pawpaw's frantic chattering. " _Y'need t'calm down though, youngun, or you'll just explode like a tadpole during dry spells! Iff'n you don't take breaths, naw, man, deeper'n that! Iff'n you don't take breaths you'll pass out and I don't think my lil body can handle you topplin' over on me like that coz you're much bigger'n before and weigh more too!_ "

" _Hey_ Bev!" Hardwon—thankfully, because Moonshine is emotionally _exhausted_ —greets as they walk up. "Got you some clothes!"

"Hey..." There, Beverly speaks at last! Praise all the gods that exist! Even if it is quiet and sad and scared.

"You're _about_ my size so I _think_ these'll work." Hardwon offers up the shirt and pants. "Dunno if you wanted shoes too, but I _got_ 'em! Me and Moonshine can take Pawpaw while you go change." Normally modesty isn't an issue between the three, but with the recent changes, everyone is a little raw and anxious about their bodies. Beverly especially.

Beverly finally looks up and Moonshine and Hardwon are taken aback by his eyes. Gold irises and black sclera, square pupils. _Very_ demonic. Very _tiefling_. He gives them a weak grin, mouth full of fangs, and an even weaker chuckle. " _Yeah_ , I think shoes would be a good idea."

Moonshine whistles, once, and Pawpaw leaps into her arms, almost bowling her over. He excitedly starts chattering at her and she listens because she can now. Hardwon nods his head at a small alleyway, eyebrows raised. In the shade of the city, his eyes don't hurt half as much.

"I think over there would be best for getting dressed. No one can ambush you with your dick out that way." That elicits a laugh from Beverly and that's _enough_. That's all he needs. To know Bev is okay, is there, is _safe_.

Grabbing the clothes and shoes, Beverly toddles over to the alleyway and starts pulling them on, all the grace of a baby deer. He moves in crooked jerks, his tail balancing him best it can, and when he realizes he needs to let it out of his pants, he sheepishly tears a hole in the back of them. Not like Hardwon was planning on getting them back in any sort of pristine condition anyway. Everything fit well enough in the end, even if shoes are a weird concept for the once-halfling. Beverly is grateful for that at least.

The ground hurts his feet and that's _wrong_ and _bad_ and _wrong_ and _bad_ but he can't do a thing about it so shoes it is! He doesn't know how Moonshine can walk around like a halfling when her own feet are as sensitive as this. It's a baffling concept for sure.

When he walks back, moving a _bit_ like a cat in booties, Beverly finally gets the chance to take in the differences that the Surge has caused each of them. For one, he isn't the smallest in the group any more, now about four feet taller and Moonshine about two feet shorter. For another, Hardwon is a drow and it's _wild_ to see him without a beard. Finally, Moonshine looks _super_ cute as a gnome and that is a weird realization.

He kinda wants to _hug_ her.

" _Well_ ," Beverly says, shaken a bit by how low his voice feels, even if it doesn't sound that way, "any idea how long this lasts?" Hardwon makes awkward eye-contact with the floor, his ears laid flat. Moonshine shrugs. Beverly just sighs. "It would help if any of us knew _anything_ about Wild Magic, wouldn't it?"

"Worst come to worst, it could be _permanent_!" Moonshine offers. Hardwon makes a choking noise in his throat. Beverly just laughs, once, dry and shocked. Fair, _fair_.

" _Best_ case scenario is that it ends in a couple hours and we're _solid_!" It's easy to push aside one's own fears with humor. It's the best _and_ worst of coping mechanisms.

"So, what? Do we just keep on until it wears off? How're we gonna convince Stunkbug that this is _us_?" Moonshine has a point but...

"We can just mention it? I mean, there's Juan and so on! I'm sure that 'a drug-induced Wild Magic Surge made us change races' is less outlandish than other things we've said before?"

Hardwon laughs, "It's like a bad joke, isn't it?"

"He used to eat _literal_ shit. I think we're solid on that front," Moonshine retorts.

"Let's _not_ bring that up though," Beverly warns. "We wanna stay in his good graces. He's the _only_ reason we're in Ezry proper to begin with. _Though_ ," he let himself smile a little bit, "no one can accuse me of being a bubble boy now."

The other two laugh. It's a nice catharsis, even if it's only temporary.

Moonshine is the first to speak up again. "Y'think he'll believe us?"

"I don't think he _won't_ believe us?" It's not reassuring, but it's the best they have.

"Then let's go!" Because, honestly? They can't do _much_ worse than this, _can_ they?

* * *

They _can_ and _do_.

Ezry is on fire behind them and the three of them flee on horses outside of the city limits. Forgetting their current states of being, Moonshine attempts to scoop another gnome on the way out and has to be rescued by Hardwon, who will _never_ let her live that one down. Thankfully, the gnome they attempted to scoop is a decent enough dude.

Better yet, he's a divination wizard and has the goddamn luck of knowing how to scry answers using bone runes and the stars. Their Surge-induced racial swap isn't going to last longer than a few days. Till then, though, could they escort him to a tower that's supposed to hold an all-seeing god? _Yes_? Good.

Because it's just an escort quest! How bad can their luck be?

(Spoiler: _very bad indeed_ , but that is for another time.)


	4. Familia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is not enough. Strength is not enough.
> 
> Maribelle is just too persuasive and, one by one, they fall.
> 
> (Nicki Minaj, Anuel Aa, Bantu — Familia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hi hello there! I have issues with tenses! Whoops....
> 
> I love Maribelle and the concept of someone so far gone that she can't see that her own actions aren't her own any more. I like the tragic villain route they took with her. Hey, Murph? Fucking superb you funky little DM. I'm glad you went there.
> 
> I take a few liberties with some of the pacing of that scene but ehhhhhhh fuck it. My sandbox now. What's continuity?
> 
> Maribelle seems the kind to want a family, even despite Ilsed's manipulation of her via that book and so on. A demon, after all, is a creature driven by desire and want. So, yeah, sure, fuck it.
> 
> Spoilers for the Crick arc, obvi.
> 
> Warning: emotional manipulation, psychological manipulation, and also body horror vis-a-vis mushrooms and the like.

Wisdom can't save them. Not _this_ time. Luck is against them. Maribelle is _too_ strong, _too_ cunning, too _good at what she does_. She has her hooks in them. She has them. She _has_ them.

Cobb is easy to get her strings under his skin. Her spores are already coursing through his lungs, soaking his blood, _changing_ him for her, but now, fingers dancing like a wild puppeteer, she can make him dance.

"Cobb, you _know_ me. You know _what you did_ t'me," her tone is a whine, a siren song as she speaks through her children in his chest. "I forgive you, Cobb, but you gotta prove you _mean_ it this time." He tilts, eyes dribbling black, mouth working around nothing. _Damn_ , he was still a sight to see, even now, _older_ , no wiser. " _Prove_ you love me, coz I never stopped loving you."

That's all it takes. Five words and he's hers. His will snaps like a drawn bow and he levels his gun at the oddity, the older halfling man, and fires. She doesn't need him. The others are _far_ more useful.

Hardwon is almost laughable, his open wound, seeping with a desire for family, for a mother, for _affection_. So she pulls through his Rot, through her influence in him, and draws that need to the surface. Black obscuring his sight, she croons, "You know _I_ can be th' mother you never had."

Hardwon fights harder than Cobb did. She'll give him credit for that. He's got a will to him, but considering his traveling companions, she didn't fault him for that. Moonshine _herself_ was a force to be reckoned with, so he'd _have_ to be willful to work with her. _Or_ a pushover, but he proved that he was more than that when he tore through her precious ones up the river.

" _My_ mother," he says through clenched teeth and clenched fists around the handle of his battleaxe, "was a _good_ woman. She fought for what she believed in."

"She _abandoned_ you," Maribelle drawls, dragging a memory of the Widow to the front of his mind. He winces and staggers, face pained. "She gave you t'Red, who took you t'Irondeep, where you never knew _who_ you were. The Dwarfinage's a _cruel_ place. I'm offerin' you motherly love, Hardwon. Be my protector, my son, n' I'll show you what you could've had, if th' Widow hadn't been so damn _selfish_." He pulls away from her polyps but it's enough. She's got him. She _knows_ she's got him. "I'll stay here, with you, and give you love _even when you don't earn it_. Just fight for me, Hardwon. Protect me. I'll _love you forever_ if you do."

He takes a wild swing at the older halfling and connects. Somehow, the damn fool is still standing. Sturdier than she thought.

Beverly is next. Small, tender, _scared_ Beverly, who believes _so strongly_ in a god that speaks of light and love and joy but _rejects_ the decay of nature and death. It's easy for Maribelle to find the chink in his armor: his fear of Thiala and what she means for his home and family and loved one. She opens all of her arms to him, baring her bosom.

" _Beverly_ ," she hums, sings, calls out with her voice reverberating across her spores set deep within his skin, "little Bev. Youngun, they shouldn't have you fight like this. It's _cruel_ , s'what it is!"

Beverly fights harder than Hardwon—a sort of surprise, as she expected the child to be a _little_ more pliable than the adults, but _go figure_ —and she feels him push back against her spores. "I'm here," he retorts, "because I _want_ to be. People _need_ to be saved, to be _helped_ , and _I'm strong enough_ to help them!"

 _Okay_ , Maribelle thinks, eyes catching the way the spare is shielding Moonshine, despite her current health being better than his own, _let's switch tactics._

"You fight _so hard_ , little Bev," she says, plucking forth memories of Galaderon, of the Chosen, of the Elemental Chaos, "but you're _so tired_ , ain't'cha? You gave _all_ you could in Galaderon— _more_ than that, even—and now you're fighting _again_. Not even a few weeks later. The world can save _itself_ for a bit, little Bev. Take a nap. Lay down and sleep. You've _earned_ it. I'll protect you, keep you _safe_." She can feel his mind weakening, losing grip on his own will. It's wonderful to feel the fight just leak out of him like this, coz his holy powers were the biggest threat of all. "Lay down in my lap and you won't have t'fight unless you _wanna_. You can take a break. You can trust me."

He drops his weapon, young Beverly, and she summons a large mushroom for him to rest on. His cheeks are tracked with black ooze and his eyes are sightless. They close and he settles in at last. The Rot in him pulsates and thrums with his breathing. He calms. The remaining two—Moonshine and the spare—cry out but her protector and her lover keep them at bay.

Moonshine is broken and shuddering when Maribelle reaches out at last. With her affinity for fungal forms, Moonshine is an open book. She doesn't know _how_ to shut out fungus, so she _can't_. Maribelle drags her conversation the night before forward.

"You know," Maribelle says, low, sweet, sonorous, "I'm _so_ sorry I wasn't there for you, growing up."

"You're _not_ my mother," Moonshine protests. " _Meemaw_ is."

"I should've visited your dreams or projected myself in t'your wakin' moments. Played with you through th' mushrooms that kept th' Crick so vibrant. Been a presence in your childhood, at least."

"You're _sick_ and a _liar_ and a _demon_ ," she protests, weaker, more harried.

"But Jolene had _such_ a grip on all a'y'all, _all_ the younguns, not just you, and _I was in Hell..._ " Maribelle lets anger taint her voice, creep in through the spores, puddle in her chest and draw Moonshine's love for Jolene _right out_. Manipulation is _easy_ , emotions even more so. A psychic link with others made it pathetically easy to pull and pluck and tear the weeds of weakness free. "But _now_ I can be there for you, can be th' mother you _deserved_. You're th' _only_ child I _ever_ had, you know? Not even th' black ones and th' others are mine, not wholly. Not like you."

"Sh- _shut up_!" Her protests are only a front. She's gone now. Maribelle has her by all fronts.

"Come here, Moonshine, and let me hug you. Let me hold my daughter. Let me be there for you at last." Only a few more tugs and she'll unspool. "Come here n' give your mother a hug."

The spare is left alone, battered and bloodied. Her protector swings and the spare is no more. Her son hums and snuggles deeper, tired, dreaming. Her lover steps to her side and kneels, devoted wholly. Her daughter wraps her up in a fungal hug.

Maribelle has _won_.

The Crick is _hers_ now.

So _who's_ laughing now, Jolene? Who's the better leader _now_?

And her family grows and grows and _grows_.


	5. Puppet Loosely Strung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is still wrong with Beverly. Has been wrong ever since Galaderon.
> 
> What is wrong with Beverly?
> 
> (The Correspondents — Puppet Loosely Strung)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More antipalidin!Bev? More antipalidin!Bev.
> 
> Somehow this managed to be 4K and I guess that's my life now. Angst and Big Hits and 4K in mean mean Fanfiction Crimes.
> 
> You may have noticed that I'm adding the chapters' namesakes in the summary along with the artists. That's so you have a playlist when you want to cry lmao.
> 
> How about that new episode though? How bout that character growth and also Balnor just being a goddamn BAMF?!!! Bag-dad for life! (The almost TPK made me sweat lmao)
> 
> I think this one took longer coz I wanted so bad to make Beverly this suave villain and, even in the antipaladin-verse, isn't really. Not really. So his gentle off kilter dance fell into screaming against Maribelle. And she became a foil to his quiet madness while her own angry fear ran wild.
> 
> Next one might be more Feeblemind!Bev or ghost-parents!Hardwon. I dunno...
> 
> Warning: implied murder, emotional manipulation, physical torture (of a sort), emotional torture, and psychological manipulation.

Moonshine breaks first, pulling aside Hardwon to whisper worried suspicions as they wait on the deck of the _S.S. Stormborn_ , right on the edge of the Crick.

"I'm worried," she says, casting a look back at Beverly, who is sitting and sharpening his blade, "about Bev."

"Why?" Hardwon doesn't bother beating around the bush, asking the direct question right away.

"He's...been _off_ since...," she doesn't finish the statement, they all know what she's aluding to. Galaderon. Beverly IV. The Crag. Galad. "And did you see what he did to Thiala?"

_Beverly had waited with a patience that he hadn't exhibited in a long time, dangling his feet over the roof of the temple of Pelor as Thiala winged her way from the heavens. Holy light struck everything beneath the clouds, reflecting iridescent off the puddles of blood that dripped through the city. The Chosen prostrated themselves beneath her, wailing and calling to her. When the fallen hero-turned-goddess set foot down on the city itself, the blood parting to not stain her feet, Beverly jumped down and walked up to her, eyes dead and face set in grim disinterest._

_He leaned in close to Thiala and said something none of them could hear, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Her own face remained stalwart, though her wings fluttered slightly, almost worried. Then, without a single glance backwards, without a seeming thought about the rest of Galaderon—his mother, the Green Teens, Uncle Duck, and a few others squirreled away on the ship Red had commandeered and heading away from the carnage—he dashed his way to Moonshine and Hardwon and started the quick walk to the docks._

_No one had asked him about it. They both were unsure of how to broach the subject._

_Ol' Cobb himself didn't seem to think it was his fucking business._

_And Ulfgar was a whole 'nother kettle of fish, but that's neither here nor there._

Grim, confused, Hardwon nods once and exhales sharply. "You think he _did_ something?"

"I think _something_ happened," she confirms.

" _What_ though?" They cast glances at him, sharp and worried. He's still sharpening his sword. The firelight casts a red glow in his pupils and sets angry, sharp shadows across his cheeks. " _What_ could have happened?!"

" _That's_ what worries me," Moonshine admits. She wants to take him in her arms, give him a hug, and ask him to spill his guts. "Coz I dunno, do _you_?"

Neither have an answer they find satisfactory. Neither say a single word. They have nothing _to_ say.

* * *

Moonshine's fear does not abate as time goes on. _In fact_ —if the way that Beverly scares off a merchant with look alone—her worries increase tenfold. Something is wrong and it's only getting _wronger_.

When they arrive in the Crick, western area barren and fraught with Rot but eastern area alive as they _could_ be, Meemaw pulls Moonshine aside as the rest debrief and enjoy the new sights. Moonshine watches Hardwon shadow Ol' Cobb through Crick traditions and so on as she pretends to listen. She would kill for the Crick, that much is true, but right now her boys come first. Hardwon is rubbed raw with realizations and Beverly is— _is— **is—?**_

"Do you know _who_ you're travelin' with?" Meemaw asks. It _scares_ Moonshine, the intensity that she's asking with. It horrifies Moonshine, the way Meemaw is staring at Beverly, eyes still, brows pinched, chest stuttering poorly with uneven breaths.

"They're my friends," Moonshine states. It's a fact. They _are_ , after all, her _friends_. End of question.

"Do you _know_ ," Meemaw asks again, almost _desperate_ , "who you're travelin' with?"

" _My friends_ ," Moonshine reiterates. Meemaw leans into Moonshine then, accidentally revealing weakness that she's probably been suppressing since the Rot became an issue. But it's the black, sticky phlegm that she wipes on the back of her hand that scares Moonshine more than the fear in her Meemaw's voice.

" **Let _me_ take her**," Mawmaw says. Meemaw has no chance to argue as the large awakened possum drags her away from a confused and horrified Moonshine. " **Get some sleep child.** "

Moonshine is afraid as she watches Beverly eye Chosen paladins offering a cure for the Rot. Moonshine is afraid as Ol' Cobb speaks of the Elemental Chaos and the power they might find within. Moonshine is afraid as she's barely able to meditate under stress and duress.

Moonshine is afraid when she finds each of the Chosen slaughtered in their sleep, throats torn out by a wild creature no one can identify. Moreso when Beverly, bright and early, grins and she can remember his own teeth gnashing, chin dripping blood the moment after his father's death.

" _Do you know who you're travelin' with?_ " She asks herself.

_Does_ she? Does she _really_?

* * *

Beverly stands before the Elemental Titan of Fire and states, plain as how d'you do, " _I'll_ be your champion." The Elemental Titan of Fire hesitates, eyes of molten rock flicking between Hardwon, Moonshine, Cobb, and Beverly himself, and Beverly, again, states the facts. "I'm _all_ that's left here. Don't waffle. Give me your power. We _both_ know I've more than earned it." And he complies, but doesn't look like he _wants_ to.

Outside of the Chaos, before they plan to leave for the west side of the Crick, Beverly jams his whole arm in the fire and watches, with no change in expresion, as nothing much happens.

Moonshine pretends that his eyes don't look empty. She pretends his face doesn't look hollow. She ignores the wraps on his hands and the strange way the blood seeps through them.

Moonshine is afraid and she doesn't know _why_.

" _Do you know who you're travelin' with?_ "

She's really starting to worry more than ever before.

* * *

The west side of the Crick is a disaster zone and it takes its toll on everyone. Cobb contracts the Rot, trying hard as he might to hide it. Hardwon is almost sick at the sight of all the mushrooms— _bless him_ , she doesn't mind, these nasty ones belonging to Maribelle are hard to look at—and seems to be having a hard time sleeping. Even Moonshine is having a tough time, though more because she's poking into the past and the past is poking back with possible truths she doesn't want to acknowledge.

( _Is_ Maribelle her mother? What does that even _mean_? What was that book they found save for a way to make deals with _demons_?! And what did that mean for _and_ of the Maribelle of the past?)

Beverly, though, is stoic, calm, untouched. He bags the horrifying book without a thought, almost _disgusted_ by its existence. He kills Melf's snakes, no remorse. He sleeps like he's on his bed at home, no nightmares or _nothing_. He watches with a blank disinterest, no commentary, as the mushroom folk that Maribelle created fall, one by one.

It's the worst of all things, this blankness that Beverly exudes. This emptiness.

Meemaw's words echo in Moonshine's head. " _Do you know who you're travelin' with?_ "

She's less sure as time goes on. It's the not knowing that hurts the most.

* * *

The trip down the river is wild and exhilarating. The spiders are a nominal concern, barely an issue at all, and the mushroom folk less so, so the Band navigates the rapids with ease. At the end of it all is Maribelle's lair and, inside it, Maribelle herself. Before they enter, they take a short rest. Beverly walks to the far side of the group and starts communing with his god, eyes blank as he stares at the large mushroom castle before them.

Moonshine is filled with a wild sort of dread she cannot pin, her chest aching with a pulsing wave of _loss_ and _longing_ and _hate_ and _pain_ and **_fear_**. Of _I wasn't fast enough_ and _it's all my fault_. Of _vengeance_ and _recompense_.

She doesn't like it. She doesn't like it any more or less than the feeling of worry that gnaws at her when she talks to Hardwon in hushed tones about Beverly's actions, his strange mannerisms, the way he blankly kills with no emotional depth. Before... _Galaderon_ , before the death of his father, Beverly always found something to be excited about, _happy_ about, _something_ about. Now he was neutral and calculating, eyes watching and waiting with _something else_ behind them.

It worries them _both_ but Moonshine is gripping at it, the fear, her faith, and tugging at the strings. _Melora, ambivalent and wise, grant me wisdom and insight. Melora, though you may not care much for mortal whims, allow me to see the truth of the matter._ She wants the mystery to unravel, to fall apart so she can pick the pieces up and snap them back together.

Maribelle is... _sad_. No, not sad, _worrisome_. Maribelle is angry and hurt. Again, the pull from the screaming hollow in Beverly is the worst of all the things she's feeling—the gnawing worry about Maribelle being her mother maybe _possibly_ , the concern for the Crick the Rot and her Meemaw, the threat of Thiala—but Maribelle is next to worst.

And, beyond Maribelle, is the nagging feeling that she's _missing_ something. That something is going on that she's missing. That she's not noticing the obvious. That she's one puzzle piece away from finishing the picture she's been looking for.

Ol' Cobb fights off the Rot growing in his lungs, eye watering as he shakes against her pull. He coughs, hard, and levels his gun at Maribelle, despite her cooing at him.

Hardwon is infected and drops, one knee on the ground, eyes dripping with black ooze. He howls and rages, slamming himself into Ol' Cobb, only to later wrest himself free from Maribelle's control and swing at her head.

Moonshine herself can feel the Rot seep into her, can feel the polyps and pseudopods of Maribelle's bespoke demonic illness take hold in her brain. The echoes and howls of Maribelle's influence screams against all of Moonshine's defences, railing, thrashing, pained.

But Beverly is, scarily enough, left alone. No spores, no Rot, no attacks. Maribelle takes one look at him and pales, were that possible. She's already so pale now, pasty skin, black hair, black eyes, black pseudopods, black mold, but seeing Beverly, seeing precious lil' Bev, sets her _on edge_. In fact, Maribelle seems almost _afraid_ of him.

And he _knows_ it. And he _enjoys_ it.

"Why won't you _talk_ to me, Maribelle?" He calls, grinning, wild, enshrouded in flames. "It's not what you think!"

"I," her voice is a death rattle, a collapsing tunnel, a whisper of the past, "want _nuthin_ ' t'do with you and you know _exactly_ why. You n'your... _patron_! I _spent_ my time in Hell, so you can't just fucking _waltz_ in here n' _take me back!_ "

" _You_ —?" Beverly wheezes, falling back on his heels, eyes watering with... _glee_? Amusement? It's _sick_ and sets Moonshine's teeth on edge. "Again: it's _not_ what you think! And it's _definitely_ not him! You think—you think _I'd_ — _and_ —?!"

Maribelle bristles, _literally_ , her tendrils rippling upward and screaming outward and setting off poofing spores in clouds around her head. A defense mechanism. She's _scared_. "I _did_ my time! That sick asshole _tricked_ me, took from me my time here with-with _Cobb_ and-and-and th'Crick and-and my sister, _Jolene_ —" Moonshine's heart _aches_ , not with the same pull and pain that Beverly draws lately, but with desire and sadness "—and he took _all that away_ with blood n' _lies_!"

" _Maribelle_!" Beverly says, each part of her name a different note, a song for children to keep them in line. "I _don't_ work for him. I can't say it enough! _My patron_ —"

"Blood on your palm, in your mouth, on your hands! You can lie t'your friends, but I'll bet Jolene saw _right through you_!"

Moonshine is stricken dumb.

" _Do you know who you're travelin' with?_ "

Maribelle continues, eyes wild. The rest of the fight is abandoned, everyone else forgotten. Confronting Beverly, holding him off, is _all_ that matters now, it seems. The implications are _staggering_. Horrifying. "Profane sigil carved through agreement! Whether or not he took you in, it was a _lie_! All a them lie like that! Ilsed, Thiala, Akarot, Asmodeus! _All_ a them's _liars_ and _cheats_! You won't finish what you set out to do, _young Bev_ ," she says his name like it's a curse, the red in his eyes a reflection of such, "and _you_ know it and _he_ knows it and you'll _never_ be free!"

"What's she on about, Bev?" Hardwon asks. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to know. None of them want to know. But the need it.

" _Beverly_?" Cobb asks, single eye trained on him, barely moving.

" _They don't know_ ," she hisses, gleeful. She has something on him. She _has_ something on him! She has something on him and he _can't refute it now!_

He doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't speak. Beverly doesn't do a damn thing, standing, sword gripped loose in cloth wrapped palms. Then he smiles and it is not a smile, holy fuck it is so far from a smile. "I mean, _yeah_! Of _course_ they don't know! If they knew, what's to keep them from _leaving_? What's to keep me from being alone, _right_?! And, whether or not I've been lying or anything, I _do_ fucking care about them!" He laughs and it is not a laugh. "I fucking care and, _I dunno_ , that's gotta mean _something_ , doesn't it?!"

Cinched and tied. This is _not_ Beverly. Whatever is here, whatever it is that's in front of her, that's _not_ Beverly, not _really_. Because Beverly doesn't like cursing. Doesn't like doing bad things like lying and killing.

They've been turning a blind eye on things for a really long time. It's really biting them in the ass now. It's all their fault.

All _her_ fault.

_Fuck_.

"You can tell Akarot—" the name is familiar, like cinnamon on her tongue, "—that he can _eat my ass_. I'm _not_ going back and, if Ilsed wants me for some bullshit army, he can _fuck off_. _He's_ the reason I'm here, alone, without-without _him_ , without _her_ —! He _tricked_ me! I _wouldn't_ —!"

" _Ilsed_ did," Beverly argues, "but _Akarot_ —"

" _Who's Akarot?_ " Moonshine asks. She doesn't want to sound so broken but she is _she is **she is—**_

"Akarot is _his spawn_!" Maribelle shrieks. The world has stopped. Even as she and Beverly go back and forth, no one moves. No one speaks save them. She keens and writhes. " _The same_! The same _cloth_! Don't fuckin' lie to me like _he did_!"

"Do you think for a _second_ that I'd play fetch quest for _Ilsed_?!"

"I don't _presume_ anything of _Akarot's champion!_ " Beverly _almost_ looks hurt. Almost. It's so fake it tastes like honeyed bread.

"Akarot and Ilsed have _very_ different values, least I can tell." He's calm, collected. They dare not intrude.

" _Demons_ ," she hisses, tendrils flaring. "Demons and _their ilk_."

"Pot, _kettle_."

" _Fuck_ him and his wants!"

"I'd watch your tongue, you know," Beverly warns. He's losing the warmth in his voice, becoming less Beverly and more...this Akarot, perhaps. "Because he _is_ still my patron."

"Call him _god_! You _abandoned_ th'other!"

" _Rich words_ coming from a woman who sold her soul for _jealousy_ and _greed_!" Beverly warns.

"Not _by choice_! _Not like you!"_ Her tone is accusatory now, sharp and loud. "I was tricked but you _offered it freely_! _Handed_ him your soul like a bowl a jambalaya! How'd'ya do, mister Akarot, have some of me _t'go_!" She pantomimes passing her heart to another, fingers cupped around an invisible organ.

" _You—?_ " Hardwon asks, barely audible.

" _No one_ ," hisses the thing that might have once been Beverly, "should be without a _father_."

Cold. Empty spot in her chest. Longing. Needing.

_Sweet Melora_ , she _got_ it now.

_Oh fucking sweet fucking Melora,_ she _understood_.

Because the difference between _her_ Bev and _this one_ is his daddy died. His daddy _died_ and he was _different_.

His daddy _died_ and he _sold his soul._

And it left him _wanting_.

" _Beverly_." It slips out without her thinking. The pity. The desire to hug this boy, show him love. The want to protect.

He looks at her like she's next. "Don't you _fucking_ dare," he warns. "I may care about you but _don't_. Just shut up and _back off_. I don't need your pity. Not anymore." He turns his attention back on Maribelle, who looks vaguely pleased with herself. His teeth bare in a snarl. The Chosen. Blood and bone and tearing. Moonshine is gonna be sick. "You don't wanna? _Fine_. I was given free reign on this one so here's _my_ choice. _Fuck you_. Eat _shit_. You're not worth it." He draws his blade across the ground and it catches fire. "Hell will easily welcome you back, whether you _want_ to be there _or not_."

Hardwon moves to strike Beverly's blade out of the way but he's not fast enough. Ol' Cobb draws his gun and he's too slow. Moonshine is stricken with shock, unable to even speak, let alone move and react.

Beverly's blade pierces her throat and withdraws, the wound smoking and searing closed. She chokes and grips at her neck. He turns away, doesn't give her death the sanctity of observation.

They can _finally_ see his hands.

There's a mark on his left palm, a wound that bleeds in a strange and inhuman way, and it was hidden for so long. It's _just_ familiar enough that she _hates_ it but just _different_ enough that she doesn't _understand_.

Maribelle dies on the floor, choking, and they can do nothing about it except feel the Rot leave them slowly and methodically. Because something in Beverly holds them in place.

"She would've been _so_ useful," Beverly tuts, his grin disingenuous, "but she said no. Consent or none, there is no in between. Though she _was_ right about Ilsed. He tricked her. She wrote a note on a torn page from the book, signed it, and he knocked her clean out. Then he used her blood to seal it back in the book proper and bind her to Asmodeous."

Moonshine's still blood boils. She _hates_ Ilsed for this but hates Akarot _more_. This is _her_ boy and he's so _wrong_ , a funhouse mirror of a person. _A lie_.

"He offered me the people who had their grubby fucking hands in my dad's death. The Crag, Galad, the shitty little boy king, his fucking cunt mother, his spineless cuck uncle, the Chosen, Thiala, and the _whole_ goddamn court. _All_ of them are mine to take from this plane to the next. For that," Beverly sighs and discards the wraps that concealed his pact-mark, "I was given power. More than any god could've ever offered."

She wants to scream and writhe and ask him why. Even Hardwon looks horrified at Beverly's confessions. Even Ol' Cobb, who doesn't know the kid that well. They're _all_ taken aback and it's the _worst_ thing they've ever felt.

"I got the Crag, you remember that. I got Galad well and good. The Chosen are a...work in progress, but I'll get there. Thiala is endgame but I think the three of us can agree on that." Beverly ticks off his fingers one by one, counting down his targets. "The boy king and his bloodline were hanged by the neck until dead by the Chosen when Thiala descended, so that's that. As for the court? They'll get theirs eventually. _Especially_ the Pebblepots. I have _plans_ for them."

His eyes _do_ glow, she realizes now. It's not a trick of the light, the strange redness in his pupils, but an _actual light_ in his eyes.

"But I stayed because I _like_ you. I stayed because, whether or not you realize it, you're my _family_ , more or less. And, coz of that, I'm _not_ gonna kill you. Not unless you _get in my way._ " He grins again, bared teeth, bare intentions. "I _will_ give you some pointers though. _One_ : Gemma Bronzebeard is getting married to Gerrard Coldain soon. Or, she _should_ be, but _someone_ wants her dead. Do with that what you will." Hardwon hisses and it's hard to see him want to move, to scream, to ask _why_. None of them _can_ move or speak and it's a blessing and a curse, their impotence. " _Two_ : I'm gonna go see a pirate about a dwarf that's trapped in a Prison Gem. I _don't_ suggest following but I _do_ thank you for getting him out of Thiala's craven grasp. He's gonna be easier to needle and wheedle if he doesn't have her in his head all the time. And if the Rot is clear, which _it is_." He laughs, once, fake. " _Three_ : I won't hurt you _unless_ you make me but... _consider_ my cause? Our cause? Thiala's _gotta_ go. Even _you_ can agree. Hope we see each other again on better terms!"

_Don't go_ , she wants to cry. _Don't go_ , she wants to scream. _Don't go_ , she wants to beg. _Please, Beverly, come back to us!_ But she _can't_. They _can't_. _He_ can't.

He's too far gone.

The smell of sulfur accompanies a red and black rip in spacetime, a Nightmare winging their way out of it to pick up Beverly, who grabs his bag. His bag with Thiala's amulet and the book inside of it. His bag with many items of power. His bag and all those things that can help this Akarot with his dark goals.

"Be safe!" He waves to them, his control waning as time goes on. "See you later, maybe!"

And he's _gone_.

* * *

Meemaw is okay, the Crick is okay, and the Rot is gone. Eveyone is celsbrating but Moonshine throws herself into her Meemaw's arms and _cries_ , _hard_ , body _shaking_. She wails and recounts Beverly and Maribelle and Ilsed and Akarot. She talks about Bev's dad and how they didn't notice _how could they have never once noticed?!_ She _begs_ her Meemaw to explain _how_ she could love someone and fail them so wholly.

Off to the side, Ol' Cobb holds a drunk and angry Hardwon, grieving in his own way. They both are hurting and they hate hate _hate hate **hate it!**_

"Do you _know_ who you're travelin' with?" She asks herself, aloud, in the arms of her Meemaw who loves her.

She can't find it in herself to find an answer. She doesn't know if there _is_ one.

Meemaw can only promise healing, and maybe not even that. That's how life is. That's how _Melora_ is. Fickle _fickle **fickle**_. Ambivalent. _Uncaring_. Could go either way.

The next day, they make their way to the _S.S. Stormborn_ , heading to Frostwind to cut off the wedding party and avert disaster. To save Gemma— _fuck_ the Pale Prince, really—and save Beverly, _even if_ he didn't want it. To make things _right_. As they set off, eyes watching the horizon, scanning for something that would never come, Hardwon wonders aloud and it's more heartbreaking than anything before.

"Do you think he even _wants_ to be saved?"

" _The fuck_ are you smoking?! Of _course_ he wants to be saved! He _loves_ us, _don't he_?! And he _can't_ be happy with that _Akarot_ thing in him!" Moonshine is incised, shaking, _horrified_.

Hardwon shakes his head, mouth a drawn line of serious contemplation. " _No_ , but like, he may not _want_ saving like...he may not think he _needs_ to be saved! Like, does he _care_? Does he think he's in a worse place? Or is he _just_...I dunno...just making a deal he knows will fuck him over?"

" _I_ —" Moonshine can't answer. She doubts she ever could. She was always just kidding herself the whole time.

The world isn't that easy.

"Do you know _who_ you're travelin' with?" She asks herself aloud.

"Moonshine Cybin, druid, kickass, and fungal queen. Best damn cook outside of the Crick, and a fine set of tits." Hardwon answers, unbidden, with humor masking honesty. It makes her laugh. "And what about you?"

"Hardwon Surefoot, Bastard of the Mountain, fighter and agnostic, brick shithouse, who can't flirt for nuthin, but has _amazing_ taste in women." He laughs right back. It's lighter, this exchange.

Silence swallows them. Hardwon surfaces to speak.

"I think I may carry his faith. _Beverly's_ , that is." Moonshine looks at him in surprise but he continues. " _Like_ , I may take a course in making faith a weapon. It-it might _reach_ him, yanno? Pelor's light?"

She nods. "Yeah, I _gotcha_." She stews for a moment before admitting, "I'm gonna...let my rage out more often. See if anything _good_ comes of that. D'you...think it'll help?"

"It can't _hurt_ ," Hardwon reassures.

"It can't hurt," she repeats.

And silence swallows them whole again.

" _Do you know who you're travelin' with?_ " Yeah, she _does_. Moonshine Cybin, druid and barbarian, is traveling with Hardwon Surefoot, fighter and paladin. They're hunting for Beverly Toegold, a paladin who's lost his way.

She knows now, but it doesn't make it _easier_.

She knows now yet it hurts _more_ than before.

She _knows_ now and they're gonna _get him back, **goddammit**._


	6. You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Beverly even know what happened to him? Does he know what he's missing?
> 
> Is he aware of what he used to be?
> 
> Should they work so hard to bring him back if he isn't?
> 
> (Tally Hall — You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeblemind Bev!!! I'm a mean mean person!!!!!!
> 
> Another one for Fanfiction Hit Jail!
> 
> I started thinking about mourning someone who was alive and how my grandad had dementia and how hard that was and then cried and wrote this slowly and painfully.
> 
> How can you miss someone who's right there? When they're not there any more. Feeblemind!Bev isn't Beverly and I wanted to convey the grief of reconciling this knowledge with the fear that maybe he doesn't want to be Beverly any more? Maybe he doesn't know who Beverly is any more. Maybe Beverly isn't even there, inside of Bev. Maybe he's gone.
> 
> Anyway, sad shit aside: on with the chapter!
> 
> Warning: depersonalization

It fucking _hurts_ , to see someone so bright laid so low.

Hardwon doesn't know how to feel about all this bullshit.

About _Bev_.

About that _fucking_ Deck.

Speaking of: Bev is sitting on Moonshine's stump, feet dangling over the lip of the roof of the damn thing, humming to himself. He seems content enough, having shed his heavy armor and taken off his sword in favor of a pair of overalls nicked from a clothesline in the Crick. He _seems_ happy, humming and playing with Pawpaw, who chatters at him without pause.

They can't be _sure_ of that though.

He's _real_ fucked up right now.

They don't know if this even _is_ Bev or if it's something _less_.

Meemaw doesn't have the energy to fix it and, with the Chosen all up in their shit, the three of them plus Cobb don't have time to fuck around and wait to undo the _Feeblemind_. Coz that's what Meemaw called it. Mawmaw too.

The effect of the Fool had been _Feeblemind_. A nasty spell that obliterated the mental skills of the person who drew it. Made them no more than an animal, _barely_ capable of identifying their friends. Of protecting _themselves_.

According to all their sources, Pawpaw was smarter than Bev right now. That was _terrifying_. Destructive and horrifying.

The _worst_ damn thing.

And he didn't even know anything was wrong.

_Fuck_.

Bev didn't even _know_ he was hurt, was _less_ , was broken. He just was happy to be _around_ them.

And that was probably _worse_ than the damage itself: that he may not even be suffering.

And it broke Hardwon's fucking heart. But they had a job to do.

So they'd fucking _do_ it, Beverly in tow.

* * *

Cobb didn't know the kid well. That much was true. _Fuck_ , man, he knew _Hardwon_ better'n'he knew the kid but...

Shit was hard to watch.

In Galaderon, with all them fancy halfling folks and their fancy halfling homes, that fancy halfling kid was bright-eyed and mischievous. He looked like the kinda youngun who'd goof ya and then hug ya hard t'pologize, even with his lil twiggies broke damn near t'dust and that big galoot carryin' him about like a possum baby. He looked a right _riot_ and now? Eyes blanker than mother's milk, cooin' like an animal, he _was_...

Not the same.

Some of th' younguns in the Crick had brains like that but they were _born_ that way. Bev—Moonshine, eyes wet and angry, called him that as she cried into Meemaw's shoulder—was taken up by nasty magics and snapped across the noggin. Like _Maribelle_ had. Sweet, _angry_ Maribelle, who'd slammed fists first into Jolene and howled, torn apart with magics that drew her back to hell when they beat her at last.

_Fucking hell_ , he was sick of magic fucking up good folk.

_Sure_ , he doesn't _know_ this kid, but he knows _of_ this kid. He knows the kid's spectre and it _hurts_ him to see it hurting others. He wants to help _so_ much, this kid is a good'un, but he doesn't know how. How do you heal magic _without_ magic?

Cobb don't fucking know. Maybe he'll learn one day. Not _now_ , though.

So he smiles and coos at the kid and wrassles with him and it's bad but _enough_.

_More_ than he did for Maribelle.

More than he fucking tried with her.

Magic be _damned_.

* * *

Bev is Not Okay. Big Friend is Not Okay, Mushroom Friend is Not Okay, One-Eye Friend is Not Okay, so Bev is _very much_ Not Okay.

If Bev's Friends aren't Okay, then Bev isn't Okay.

Bev needs to make sure his Friends are Safe and Okay. He can't make them Okay, so he has to make them Safe.

The first thing that Bev does when he and his Friends sit down with Mushroom Friend's other Friend—the one who looks like Mushroom Friend but smells sick—is tries to groom Mushroom Friend. Mushroom Friend does so much for Bev, grooming Bev and making sure his fur and hair are clean, that Bev needs to do the same!

Mushroom Friend makes surprised noises but doesn't push Bev off as he combs his fingers through her hair. He works fast, trying to mimic the same rising falling noises she makes, pulling her hair into tight wraps that twist into each other. When he's done, Bev looks over his work and smiles.

_Pretty_.

Mushroom Friend is still Not Okay, but she _looks_ okay. That's _better_ , at least.

Proud of his work, Bev moves on to Big Friend, dodging out of his wide sweeping arms. With all his scrambleboy skills, he makes his way up to Big Friend's face-fur and tries to undo the ties on his face-fur wraps, but they're too strong and Big Friend keeps making angry loud noises. Behind Bev, Mushroom Friend is making loud noises too, though hers are faster than Big Friend's, but whatever she does works. Big Friend stops swinging and guides Bev's fingers to undo his face-fur wraps. Then he sits back and lets Bev work.

Bev makes rising falling noises again. _Different_ ones than before, coz he can do that, _can't_ he? That's how rising falling noises _work_? His fingers are fast and quick and soon Big Friend starts making rising falling noises too, along with Bev. Soon Big Friend is making snuffly noises and is crying, still making rising falling noises along with Bev.

Bev wishes that Big Friend was Okay. That he would _stop_ crying.

Bev finishes fast and wipes some tears off of Big Friend's face with one finger. He keeps his eyes on Big Friend's face and makes more rising falling noises to let Big Friend know that he is Safe. That he doesn't need to cry. That Bev will make sure that he is Okay.

Big Friend makes low falling noises and cups the side of Bev's head in one big hand, rubbing a thumb over the mark on Bev's eyebrow. He makes more low soft noises and cries more. Just a few tears though.

Bev frowns but leans into Big Friend's hand.

It makes Bev feel Safe. _More_ Okay.

Bev loves his Friends.

He wants them to _know_ this.

So he tries his best to let them know that Bev will make it Okay. Will keep them Safe. Will _protect_ his Friends.

Bev tries his best because his Friends need to know how he feels, how they make him feel, and that it will _all_ be Okay.

It has to be Okay.

It _has_ to be.


	7. Ship in a Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People don't give Hardwon enough credit sometimes. He remembers more than he lets on.
> 
> The world tilted on its axis. Again. Again. Again.
> 
> (Steffan Argus — Ship in a Bottle)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode 51 killed me and also gave me life. Alanis is the best I've ever seen. Balnor is the herald of the Best Possible Timeline. I'm so sorry his past sucked ass tho.
> 
> I'm a monster. I cause suffering. Timeline III didn't go well for the Boobs but it's closest to what I think natural damage to all of them would go. Hardwon's gotta have a fuckton of scars. Don't @ me.
> 
> I love Hardwon though and I don't show it enough. Here you go. My boy.
> 
> I fucking love Jake and his roleplaying.

**I**

Hardwon Surefoot, Bastard of the Mountain, returnes to Irondeep with little to show for his efforts save a few new recipes and an appreciation for home. For the earth above and below. For mining and ore and mountains and Dwarves.

For things he wouldn't admit he missed on his very short journey.

(She's gone though. Betrothed to the Pale Prince in a power move. Fuck her, though, _right_? _Fuck_ her! He didn't _need_ her! _Fuck her!_ )

Battleaxe shelved on the wall that hid his Murphy bed, Hardwon pulls his goggles over his eyes and shoulders his pickaxe. It's gonna be another long and difficult day of mining, so he needs to snag a protein shake and head out before the foreman gets up his ass about his tardiness _again_. The damn meathead seems to think _just_ coz he wasn't "a _proper_ Dwarf", that Hardwon would be a pussy and an easy mark. Little did he know that Hardwon Surefoot had spent _too long_ being the ass of _other_ shitheel's jokes to give _any_ sort of fuck about some no-name miner trying to extract metals from deep beneath the peak.

( _All_ his fucks went to the Bronzebeard family, but no one needed to know that. Fuck it. Even _he_ didn't really know it outright. Always suspected, but _never you mind_. Not learning to read was _his_ goddamn decision!)

 _Despite_ his reputation among the jackasses in charge of the mine— _something something_ hard-headed smartass _something something_ half-assed tall Dwarf joke—Hardwon is _good_ at what he does. Moreso because he's good at scaling the more perilous inclines that other miners have issues with. Handholds are too far apart and _Boots of Spider-Climbing_  are too expensive for smaller operations to have en-masse so it falls to Hardwon to hit up the veins higher up than normal. That means he's  _valuable_ and _needed_. That means he's _worth a damn_. _Take that_ Wilhelm Bronzebeard! _Fucking dick..._

(He doesn't  _need_ to be needed but...doesn't _everyone_ like to feel wanted from time to time? So it's not needy to need to be needed! _Yeah_...)

Hardwon was scoping out a small, more empty vein of silver that ran toward a wide crack in the façade of the mountain proper when he sees it. The sky above, _barely_ visible through stone and plants and other bullshit, flickers a billion different colors and then goes dark.

And then, as if the gods are kicking the harddrive that runs  _midday_sky.dll_ , the blank sky goes crimson and the plants above his head catches fire.

(He _wasn't_ scared! It just _startled_ him, is all! _Get off his dick!_ )

Beneath him, Hardwon hears the other miners calling back and forth as various bits of magical gear stop working. Then _mechanical_ gear starts shitting the bed too. Then the mountain trembles and the screams start.

(Lava! _Magma_ maybe. Hardwon had never learned the difference. _Whatever_ , it's all red and yellow molten earth!)

That hot shit is reaching up _much_ higher than it usually is, moving with intent and purpose. Hardwon scrambles down from his position on the upper level to try and get a closer look when a hand reaches out of the wet-hot bullshit and swipes at a half-dozen miners, dragging them to a deep-fried death. The remainder of them scatter like roaches. Hardwon grits his teeth and curses his quote-unquote "decision" to leave his weapon at home. Fucking labor bylaws. Couldn't bring weapons coz O.S.H.A. and so on. _Goddamn nonsense..._

(He _didn't_ name it after his ex either. He didn't _still_ care about her. He didn't _worry_ about her engagement and how it _might_ tamp down on her wild and vibrant spirit. He _didn't_ wonder if she missed him half as much as he missed her. _Nope_. He was over her _for sure_!)

Figuring that he's gonna die regardless—if the crispy Dwarf remains in the magma-lava- _whatfuckyou_ and the screaming Dwarves running for their lives are any indication—Hardwon grabs his pickaxe and holds it like he would Gemma. Then he hollers for the monster's attention and gives his best cheeky grin.

" _Come get some_ , hot stuff!"

It doesn't matter though, because the world tilts on its axis. It stretches out, infinite and paper-thin, and then snaps back to normal with enough kinetic energy to cook a goose. It twists around and becomes itself. It is and is not.

 _Again_.

**II**

Elias Stormborn Jr. wakes up with a bittersweet taste in his mouth, his head and stomach roiling like the clouds above and the sea below. This time, as he tries to regain his sky-legs, Uncle Red rings the meal bell twice, signifying that breakfast is served. If he doesn'r run, he's gonna have to fight for some bacon, and that will  _not_ do.

He _will_ get some goddamn bacon. You'd _better believe._

( _Somewhere_ , in the _smallest_ voice in the back of his head, Elias Jr. remembers a life he never lived with people he'd never met. He remembers Irondeep and Gemma and the mines. He remembers the ground and the screaming and the sky. He remembers what it was like to not know his parents.)

( _Somewhere_ , in the _farthest_ reaches of his mind, Hardwon Surefoot is  _jealous_ of Elias Stormborn Jr., which is a _wild_ concept, _isn't it_?)

" _You know_ , your mom was a paladin once," Elias Sr. smiles, elbowing Lydia in the ribs. She snorts, rolls her eyes, and snags a piece of bacon off his plate. Elias Sr. squeaks in protest and tries to take her toast in retalliation.

" _Was_ and _still am_ , Eli." Lydia laughs, smacking the toast out of his hand. "It didn't end just because my order was a bunch of Lightforsaken fascists! _Besides_ ," she gave her husband and son a winning smile and flexes, "Kord is a _much_ better god that _whatever the fuck_ Thiala thought she was. Glad she's gone before things got much worse. And I can _still_ protect the two of you."

Elias Jr. makes a face at his parent's messy love for each other. The ache in his chest doesn't abate but it doesn't increase either. It just _is_. God, he fucking loves his parents—not that he'd ever _tell_ them that, but he _does_ —but they could be _so fucking sappy_ sometimes. He jams a fistful of Red's halfway decent breakfast in his mouth and rolls his eyes when Lydia tried to comb grease out of his beard. He laughs at Gunther's grunted joke and almost spits coffee everywhere. And when all that was done, he dusts off his duster, grabs his scimitar, and climbs the rigging. It was time to do what they do best: be fucking bomb-ass pirates.

(He wondered, once, what wielding a battleaxe would feel like. What using a two-handed weapon in combat would do to his stance—wide and flexible, fit for his dexterous build and wild movements—and what it would do for the crew dynamic. Red and his knives. Gunther and his mace. Elias Sr., like his son, with a scimitar and grin. Lydia and her broadsword and smiting. Then he realized wondering was _dumb_ and just asked Lydia to teach him. It's not too different, he just had to adjust his center of gravity a bit lower to compensate.)

Mid-way through a raid of a trade ship headed from Galaderon to Gladehome, something fucking _terrible_ happens. Something that sets everyone's hair on edge and makes Elias Jr. grit his teeth with the familiarity of it all.

The sky cracks open, bleeding red fire and darkness as far as any of them can see, and demons start appearing everywhere. The air screams and waves with heat and the wingbeats of various vrock and imps slamming and rocking the sails of the _S.S. Stormborn._

"Fucking _shit_!" Red clings to the rigging, next to Elias Jr., dagger clenched between his teeth. Blood drips down his chin, matting the fur of his chest. It isn't gonna be an easy fight, it seems. "Demons?"

Gunther roars out a question, answered by Elias Sr.'s strained laugh. " _Yeah_! Peel off the trader and hold straight! I think this one's centered in Frostwind! You wanna check it out, Lyd?"

"Does an owlbear shit in the woods?!" She's grinning, teeth bared in a wild and fierce emotion that echos deep inside Elias Jr. himself, like the tide, the storm, the wild and wondrous. "You and me are gonna give them _what for_ , Eli! Let's fuck them _right_ up!"

The battle is fierce. It is long. It is _lost_.

Lydia, sword flashing with lighting and holy power, cleaves through half a dozen swarms of the demons before they overwhelm her in an attempt to _Lay Hands_ on Red.

Red, flipping about like a madman, takes one too many hits and falls to the deck and stops moving. Gunther tries to keep the demons off him but a dretch slams him against the mizzenmast and tears his innards _right_ out.

Elias Sr. swings in time with the weather around him, lighting striking with each hit. His god, Kord, speaks in thunderous booms as he slays demon after demon. But he takes a hit for Elias Jr. And that's enough for the horde to descend.

Elias Jr., eyes to the fiery sky, dances in tandem with his father and mother, up to the point where Elias Sr. dives between a claw swipe and him. Then the world swims, ears ringing. Everything is lost. Everything is _lost_. _Everything is lost._

(The same but different. The bittersweet taste of jealousy. Lemon zest and grapefruit rind. Curdled milk and day old chococlates. But not. But _not_. _But not._ )

The world tilts on its axis, familiar and so foreign. It flickers back and forth, the sail in the wind. It compresses into an orb with an oncoming cold front and bounces back with the warm passing by. It multiplies and branches away, lighting from cloud to cloud, and meeting on the ground.

 _Again_.

**III**

If anyone asked Hardwon why he took the job in Moonstone, he wouldn't have a straight answer for them. He'd _say_ it was the money, offered by a shitty dude in a shitty situation he caused. He'd _say_ it was the tits on the Crick Elf who sidled up and cooed about younguns and so on. He'd _say_ it was the alcohol and the rush of being _so goddamn cool_. He'd _say_ it was coz he fucking _hated_ bullies and those damn barbarians were the _worst_ of the sort.

That isn't the _truth_.

That _is_ the truth.

Not _all_ of it though.

(He _wouldn't_ admit that he felt anger at children being without parents. Parents being without their kids. He _wouldn't_ admit that seeing the way that Bev looked at him after the bar fight made him feel fulfilled in a way he couldn't articulate. He _wouldn't_ admit that he wanted, more than anything in the fucking world, to _not be alone any more_.)

( _That_ was the rest of it. All the things he'd _never_ say.)

So Moonstone was a _disaster_ —first real battles and all—but Hardwon grins like a champ and doesn't say a thing about the scars all down his back that make getting dressed difficult. It's fine. He's _fine_. Even the ones across his face from the Cracktooth Clan are fine coz _he's still hot_!

After Ezry— _fuck_ , man, that shit was _messed up_ , what Duddle did to Stunkbug—it doesn't matter if his leg hurts when the weather takes a dip coz Moonshine is looking worse than before with that Rot shit she carried out from the Crick.

The Watchtower was a _nightmare_ —answers to questions leading to _more questions_ and also Beverly _breaking his fucking legs_ —so Hardwon can't complain much about the broken ribs he had as he and a Rot-addled Moonshine book it to Galaderon to get the kid back home to get fixed up. And _then—!_

_And then..._

(He could feel the kid's screams deep in his soul. He doesn't want to drag him away from the wreckage of his life, sword fused to the burned flesh of his palm, kicking and howling in pain and loss. He doesn't want to watch as Alanis, crown of diamonds and gems that blaze with more power than any natural thing should hold, brings pillars of destruction down on Galaderon on Thiala's behest. He doesn't want to think about Ulfgar, Rot-addled, choker of the same sort of gems around his neck, tearing innocent halflings apart with his bare hands.)

(He finds that it's _Alanis_ that upsets him the most. A part of him is _unbothered_ by Thiala's delusions of grandeur. Another part is _almost_ indifferent to Ulfgar's vicious cruelty. The _loudest_ bit of him is most horrified when Alanis, eyes blank and body drifting like a puppet cut free, waves her hand and _the whole upper half of Irondeep is airborne by a couple thousand feet and remains so_. When Alanis, mindless, spreads her palms wide and sets fire to Gladehome _and_ the Crick alike. When Alanis, jerky and unseeing, exhales and the snow atop Frostwind melts and the cities anchored to the tundra fly free, thousands dying.)

(Magic is _terrifying_ , he realizes. Magic can _undo_ entire worlds. Magic is _the most dangerous_. Magic is something to _fear_.)

Hardwon watches, detached and tired and _unable to help_ , as Moonshine succumbs to the Rot. He fights her off—Beverly _still_ in no condition to do anything with his hands, let alone in any good place _mentally_ —but in her fungal form, it's a godsend that she only took an eye with her. Then she leaves him with Rot in his lungs and a new wound to clean.

Hardwon says nothing as Beverly withdraws inside himself, eyes empty and tired. The kid deserves better than a body half scarred to fuck because of fire. He deserves better than having to watch his father and mother and boyfriend and friends and _whole damn town_ burn because a hero got it in her head that she's _better_ than everyone else. He deserves better than a broken and battered human who can barely protect himself. So Hardwon silently soothes him when he sleeps poorly and helps him back on his feet.

(He'd _like_ to say that he isn't surprised to find him gone one day, later in their journey to find a place that was yet untouched by the "Saviours" and their terror. He'd _like_ to say that he doesn't break down and cry because, despite all his efforts, he's alone. He'd _like_ to say that he grabbed Gemma up and kept going but that would be a _damn_ lie, _wouldn't it?_ )

(Because the Chosen finds him outside of what used to be Irondeep, gazing up at the inverted peak and its gravity-defying curse. They finds him without weapons, Rot consuming most of his lungs. They finds him barely sentient, barely sapient, barely aware. They find him and they _kill_  him.)

(Or they _don't_.)

The world tilts, waving like the edges of a mountain inverse. It becomes a line, from beginning to start, traced and un-done. It's an onionskin of every breath every person takes and the scene it becomes in the end simultaneously.

 _Again_.

**IV**

Hardwon doesn't consider himself a cruel person. _Rude_ , sure. _Maybe_ mean. But not _cruel_.

 _Still_ , if there's _anything_ that traveling with Moonshine and Beverly had taught him, it was that you had to _kill_ your idols _before_ they could disappoint you.

So when Alanis—Saviour of Bahumia, on par with Ulfgar (sick as he was) and Thiala (fucking Sky Hitler)—appears as if out of nowhere in the middle of their rest at the strange tree in the middle of the West Crick, you can probably forgive him for wanting to take her out ASAP.

(It doesn't have anything to do with hating Elves or any of the female Saviours, coz that isn't true. He liked Thiala well enough until she came down and tried to put the crisp on a billion unarmed civilians because they wouldn't _bend the damn knee_. And he liked Galad well enough until he started _talking_. It was more... _a gut instinct_. And Hardwon is one to follow his instincts. It kept him out of rougher scrapes than they'd been in so far.)

(When his brain screams "kill Alanis before she can cast any magic", he's inclined to listen.)

She has her pipe half out her mouth, half-lidded gaze watching the four of them with an uncanny sharpness. In one hand is the creepy fucking book with the faces and shit. The other is empty, placating. "Look, I _understand_ where you all are coming from, but believe me: you _don't_ wanna mess with this thing. It's right _fucked_."

"Put it _down_ and _fuck off_ ," he probably shouldn't be so loud, so angry, so rough, but he's _scared_. Alanis _scares_  him. Hardwon gestures to the side with one edge of Gemma.

Alanis eyes the blade with a measure of surprise. "Good axe, dude. Mind _not_ pointing it at me?"

"Why are you _here_?!" Beverly, optimistic as he is, is worn down from this bullshit too. He hasn't drawn his weapon like Hardwon has, but he isn't relaxed like Moonshine or Ol' Cobb. Hardwon feels a little rush of pride in his Green Teen's behaviour. _Good on him_.

" _Well_ I _wanted_ to recruit Jolene to take out Thiala but she's dealing with _this_ ," Alanis waves her free hand at the West Crick, with its strange black growths. "She mentioned how Cobb and you all were back here fucking shit up to fix things and gave me the rundown on your adventures and I thought I should help?"

" _Put it down!_ "

" _You_ know _Jolene_?"

"Meemaw _talked_ about _us_?" Hardwon, Ol' Cobb, and Moonshine talk over each other with varying degrees of excitement. Still calm, Alanis answers them all in turn.

"I _won't_ because it _needs_ to be destroyed. _Yeah_ , she's one of the best druids I've ever met in my travels. We go _way_ back. And also yes, she spoke fondly of you, Moonshine. She's _very proud_ of your journey so far."

No one speaks. No one moves. The world seems to hold its breath in anticipation of a fight.

A fight that never comes.

Hardwon lowers Gemma. He still is wary but—!

Part of family is trust and Moonshine and Beverly are the closest thing he has to family. So he trusts them.

If they trust Alanis then _so be it._

( _He_ doesn't trust her but that _is_...his own hang-up. He _does_ , however, trust Moonshine and Beverly. Both of them have  _damn_ good intuitions. It's _fine_ though. He can handle leaving the trusting to them.)

True to the tales he had grown up hearing, Alanis is a holy terror in battle. Her hands wave patterns in the air, guiding _Magic Missiles_ with ease, _Fire Bolts_ tearing through Maribelle's mushroom folk like hole punches in reams of paper, and even the occasional _Shield_ spell to keep them up and running. Even as they pull in to Maribelle's lair—a large mushroom-covered dome that radiates a feeling of unease and pain—Alanis is aware and sharply observing the area around them.

Alanis pauses and blows a cloud of smoke—heavily scented in a way that meant drugs and warm and fuzzy and safe—and bites back down on her pipe. " _Hold up._ "

" _Huh?_ " They _do_ , though. They stop moving and all turn to look back at Alanis, whose ears are flipped upwards and rotating slightly to catch some noise the rest can't hear.

Ol' Cobb and Moonshine stand upright and tilt their heads to try and catch whatever Alanis noticed. Then Moonshine flickers and blossoms into her fungal form and Cobb whips his gun off his back.

" _Fuck it_! I didn't think she'd _find_ me so fucking fast!" Alanis waves her hand and cast a quick _Shield_ over Beverly, who pouts until his eyes catch movement on the skyline and all the blood drains from his face.

_Oh._

As Chosen soldiers wing down on Pegasuses, swords drawn and eyes flashing, Hardwon feels a bitter wave of deja vu pull him under.

They fight, as one does when faced with fascists wielding swords and holy fire, but it goes to hot shit when Sky Hitler herself decides to drop her holy ass in the middle of it all. Alanis, already having murdered a half dozen Chosen fucks, freezes up and literally spits in Thiala's face. The holy hero wipes away the spit and stares at Alanis with no discernible expression.

"You fucking _fascist pig_! We _trusted_ you!" Alanis is not longer chill, ears pinned back and pupils mere slits. "You got your head shoved so far up your ass that you can't smell the blood you spill! _What_ , was saving the Realms and _lying about it_ not enough?! Was instilling Ilsed as Lord of the Hells _not enough_?! Because here you are, razing the ground that won't bend to you! _Fucking fascist bitch!_ " She spits at Thiala again. Thiala still says nothing.

She doesn't  _need_ to.

Alanis _runs_. She _leaves them to die_. It hurts more than it should.

(Hardwon is barely surprised as a Chosen soldier spears him on their sword. He almost doesn't register as Beverly falls to another Chosen's crossbow. He doesn't hear Moonshine and Ol' Cobb scream in pain.)

(No, Hardwon is too occupied by the feeling of familiarity that's creeping in on him.)

Of the world tilting on its axis.

It flickers, wings of a nannerfly beating against hot Crick air to escape a predator. It blurs into a cloud of spores in your eyes, wiped away with the back of your hand. It heaves and rumbles, an earthquake of of of of—!

 _Again_.

**V**

_Overconfident_. Hardwon Surefoot was _unbeatable_! He should know better.

Snot's Yacht is a goddamn deathtrap but...they had beaten _worse_ before! They defeated Galad Rosell in combat! They freed Maribelle from her contract with Ilsed! They are going to fucking save Ulfgar from the prison gem he was trapped in! One jackass pirate and his big boat would be a _breeze_!

_But it isn't._

(There's irony here. That they would fall in a place like this. There's a sense of purpose to their deaths. It's almost poetic, if Hardwon knew what poetry sounded like past dirty limericks. _There once was an elf from Gladehome._ His favorite, to be honest.)

Beverly is riddled with bolts from Snot's security system above deck. It's ridiculous that this goddamn brillian, super strong kid would be taken out by an automated turret system but—

His small corpse is laying prone on the upper deck. Blood everywhere. Silent. Unmoving.

(The not-quite-memory of an unmoving ratfolk prone on the upper deck of a sky ship. Daggers within grasp. Fire and demons and family and—)

Hardwon loses his temper. Moonshine slipped ahead with Apple to deal with Snot himself, so he throws himself wholly into the battle with the few pirates below deck. He tears through them like tissue paper until he doesn't, taking one blow to the shoulder, which causes him to drop Gemma on the floor. They take turns kicking him down and in the ribs and then, vengeance had for their fallen brethren, the pirates draw their weapons and descend.

This time, _long_ after he's gone and Thiala has torn the Prime Material Plane asunder, the world tilted 

One last time.

 _Again_.

**VI**

" _Oh_." Hardwon says. Barely audible. Barely moving. Something inside of him shakes loose. Something else seems to settle back down.

"Poor _Balnor_ ," Moonshine whispers. Beverly says nothing.

Alanis just shakes her head sadly. She dangles a hand into the cauldron of magic smoke and waves away the image, showing herself as Thrifty Shwifty having them pull from the Deck. Of Balnor arriving in their time and timeline. Of their deeds with him in tow. "You didn’t need a _wizard_ , you didn’t need a _warrior_ , you just needed someone to tip the scales _ever_ so slightly in your favor."

(And the world _had_ tilted. It won't though.)

(Hardwon feels both relief and anxiety. The here and the _here_! The then and the _will be_.)

(Not again.)

( _Not again_.)

(Live in the now. It's all you have left.)


	8. In Verbatim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is being pulled three ways. No, not three; four.
> 
> To the north is Gemma, bidding him to leave. To the east is his father in the halls of Valhalla. To the west is his mother, lost and alone. And finally, to the south is Beverly and Moonshine and Balnor and Bev Sr.
> 
> He's being pulled four ways and can only choose one.
> 
> (Steampianist ft. Clockworksinger — In Verbatim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it narcissism to use a song I helped with in this chapter? Probably. Do I give a quarter of a rat's ass? Nah.
> 
> In Verbatim (the song) is one of my most loved songs and I don't get a lot of credit for it (namely because I'm only FEATURED on it and also did the lyrics and tuning for Sweet Ann while Steampianist is a Big Name VocaP and also super fucking talented) but it's got some secrets. Namely that it was, when I wrote the lyrics, a Homestuck song. For Kanaya Maryam. You can't unhear it. You're welcome.
> 
> Episode 54 broke me in the best way. Hardwon was, obvi, gonna be the one to eat it but STILL! I am SHOOK.
> 
> But the afterlife bit made me FEEL THINGS. Good Story THINGS. So I wrote those things down.
> 
> I've been on a Hardwon kick lately. I love Jake's roleplaying and his burgeoning game skills and just...MVP my dude. Jake you're so good I love you buddy. Keep being amazing. Thank you.
> 
> Warning for weird dissociative death shit and dark death shit. Just...death shit y'all.

Pain. Blooming in his chest, Hardwon feels the sharp pressure of pain and—?

The world is empty. No, not the _world_ ; this _space_ is empty. If he closes his eyes, he can hear someone calling for him. _Several_ someones but—

Cold, yes, _cold_. Cold and numb and _warm_? No, _not_ that. Not _warm_. Warm is the voice is the place is the person is—

_Gemma_.

"Its not your time yet!" He can _hear_ her, insofar as he can hear anything in this not-quite-place. Her voice— _fucking hells_ , he had missed her voice so much, even if it hadn't been that long since she had... _moved on_ —rang forth like chimes on crystals in ice-filled caverns. Wind and warm, yes the _feeling_ in his chest—a whisper, a smirk, a sharp note of screaming pain and _pain and **pain and**_ —blooming—red blood, a blossom of passion and what was he leaving behind but he—into longing— _please_ don't go! Not _this_ time! Not _this_ one!—that tugged him northward.

"It's not your time yet!" She pleads. She wants him, _doesn't_ she? She _promised_ , didn't she? She _asked_ him to come with her, didn't she?! So why _now_ —?

_No_. It didn't matter. Not _now_. Not _here_. Here was her and warmth and cold and love and pain in his chest that should fade soon, should go, should—

He goes north. To _her_. To the warmth.

"Too early my _ass_ ," he says, insofar as he can say in this nothingness. He can see—insofar—her now. Bronze skin, copper hair, bright eyes, gemstones cut and placed in a statuesque woman he loves more than life itself. "Should've been here sooner, all things considered, _but_..." He shrugs, insofar as he has a physical form.

She is there. _Gemma_. Gemma _goddamn_ Bronzebeard. _His_ fucking Gemma. _His angel_.

She is _there_ and she is _beautiful_ and she is looking at him—insofar, insofar—with _horror_ and _pity_.

No no _nonononono_. Baby, _Gemma_. He moves forward, holding her gaze, and holds his arms out. "I'm _here_ though? _I'm here_."

She embraces him and it is warm—a bright blossom tucked into his breast pocket, heart beating hard—and she is cold—metal, there, inside inside inside him—and he is _here_ and _happy_ and it's _perfect_.

He—hears her worry, murmur into his hair that he's here too early, too soon—weeps.

He is—leaving them behind and does not think twice—home.

* * *

_Sharp_ , like a breath he doesn't take or won't take or can't take, Hardwon feels it in his clavicle. In his collar bone. _Pain_. And then—

And _then_...

_And then._

There is a voice. _Several_ voices. They ring ring ring out—peals of thunder, the wind through hair, hoarse carousing through clouds—and Hardwon answers in kind. A scream— _yawp_ one might say in times of yore—that rips, that tears, that rends through the fog of iron and copper and lead that compose his chest and heart. Dripping free, his voice is answered.

"Come on in!" And _there's_ the rub.

Elias Stormborn. His _father_. Dead, _yes_ , but there as he _can_ be. The direction he calls from must be Valhalla, Kord's realm, the mead hall of the fallen warriors. Behind the call of his father is the sound of a thousand rowdy folks and it's suddenly _terrifying_ to think he is going to meet him. The man he was named after.

_Elias the Stormborn_.

He shifts sideways in this not-place to adjust his trajectory towards Valhalla. If this calling crying crowing place is where his father is then he can ignore the—heavy warm hearty hurt—feeling in his chest. It _is_ bad, he realizes, that he doesn't know what all will happen when he enters. Of the three voices he's heard—an angelic warning from the north, this calling to him from the east, the worried crying from the west—this is the comforting one but it's also the one he knows _least_.

Worry—a piercing pain—sets in him but he heads there, to his father—cold in his limbs in his mouth on his skin—and _hopes_.

The doors to Kord's realm open and warmth and light floods forth—pouring from his shoulder his mouth the gaping wound inside of him—and _and and **and**_ —!

"You know," the voice that belongs to his father says, "has anyone told you that you look like your mother?"

And he is striken mute.

He wants to cry, to apologize, to _beg forgiveness_.

Instead he stands, eyes watering, and takes in his father's form. His father's afterlife. His father's home after _everything_.

"Come in. Take a load off. Tell me how you've been." His father says, smiling—why is he smiling?! "I assume we've got a lot to catch up on."

They do.

_They do._

* * *

The world—or lack thereof—is dark and cold and he _knows_ he is dead.

It doesn't take a genius to know that the asshole with a weapon called the fucking Death Lance landed a _damn_ good hit.

So he's dead. Okay... _fuck_.

He can hear a couple things which is...fucking _weird_. You'd think that death would be quiet but it's _quite_ the opposite. Northward is someone... _familiar_. A warm warning and he feels— _well_ , he feels _something_. Eastward is someone else. Less familiar but _just_ as desired, calling out with acceptance but, _no_. Not there either. And westward is...

_Is_...

Oh. _Fuck_.

His biggest mistake. His biggest _regret_.

To the west is _his mother_ , wandering aimlessly, calling out for help—as much as she can.

"We can make it out together. We can make it out together. We can make it out together."

The world she is in— _in_? **_In_**?! Can it be considered living or existing in a place she is _unaware of_ or—is dark and sallow. Grey everywhere and boney trees, broken and scattered. The sky is grey, the ground is grey, the air he exhales—don't think about it _too_ much, it might make it hard to cope—is grey.

Drab. Empty. _Scared_.

Is this where she's _been_ the whole time?

In this barren hellscape?

"We can make it out together. We can make it out together. We can make it out together."

He steps forward, moving—upwards? Westward? What are directions in this strange place?—towards her. She is a shade, empty, hollow, screaming for someone something anyone anything to save her. He reaches out to touch her face, hesitating at the skin-level. Afraid to disturb her. To spook her.

"We can make it out together."

She has no breath so she continues, unbidden, without pause. It hurts worse than—the echoing screams of Moonshine and Beverly and Balnor and Bev Sr.—dying because...

This is on _him_. This is _all his fault_.

" _Hey_ ," he says, raw and whispering, "mom. Look at me. _Please_."

She turns her head to face him and her face is sallow, wan and pale, and her eyes are inky black and sightless, searching for someone out in the nothingness. Her mouth continues moving, though her voice is gone, swallowed by the ringing in his ears.

He cups her face in his hands, overwhelmed with—dying, meeting her, being reminded of _what he did_ —sorrow. He wants to keep from crying but he's _dead_ , goddammit! Why fucking bother hiding it now? So he weeps, openly, snottily, and hugs his mother against him.

"I'm so fucking _sorry_ mom. I'm so, _so sorry_. I—I shouldn't've killed him and I shouldn't've been so flippant and I should've waited but—!" Galad. Thiala. Beverly, betrayed. The dwarves of Cragwater Hollow. The town beneath the coup. The fear of genocide. The heat of battle. Emotions. " _But—!_ "

She mutters, still. Empty eyes and empty words.

He can't take it but—

He has to.

This is his punishment.

He's gonna fix this.

He's gonna fix her.

He's gonna make it out with her.

They're gonna make it out together.

They can make it out together.

_They can—_

* * *

He hears, on the horizon, a single, loud, call of " _Touch Hands_ " and he knows, deep inside, that everything will be alright.


	9. A Mask of My Own Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You cry out for help—
> 
> but nobody comes.
> 
> (Lemon Demon — A Mask of My Own Face)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooooo episode 61 left me dead in a ditch. Just so y'all know. Deceased am I.
> 
> But I figured, since I've been sitting on this one for a long time and only now have the spoons to finish it, how about I give you some Bev Sr feels? Specifically "Bev Sr was held and tortured for an indeterminate amount of time, which caused him to align with Akarot for that last battle against Queen Ezra" feels.
> 
> Take ten points of preemptive emotional damage y'all. This one sucks in a good way.
> 
> Warning: suicidal idealation, spoilers for the end of the Galaderon and Faewild arcs, mild mentions of starvation, torture, and dehydration.

The Prime Material Plane is a pipe dream at this point. Beverly Toegold IV can understand this. So long as Martha and Bev are _safe_ , are away from Thiala and her wretched grasp, then he can accept his fate.

And time passes and he grows used to being a Knight of the Summer Court and he tries to forget. It's easier to _forget_ than remember. It's easier to live in the now than the past or the could-be.

(Alanis doesn't make this easier, telling him of all the good his son is doing, all the good his friends are doing. Fighting Thiala with every breath. Saving more and more of Bahumia. Being such a damn good Green Knight. It hurts, sometimes, knowing that his son is out there, doing great things, and he can't send him a letter telling him _he loves him_.)

When Thiala finally sets her damn shop up, it's to the surprise of Beverly IV but _not_ Alanis. He calls out to her, hammering against her door with a fury unbound, and she answers with a bleary and crooked grin. She assures him that it'll be _okay_. That his son and their friends will be stopping by soon. That they'll help.

“Just keep the fascists off of Queen Cirilla and we're _golden_. Have faith. Just _have faith_.”

It's hard, but he _tries_.

And gets captured. And _tortured_.

(They want Queen Cirilla and he won't give her up. They tear him down and he _refuses_. Faith. _Have faith_. So he perserveres.)

The cage they throw him in is less of a prison and more of a pit. An oubliette with a trap made of magicked iron bars. A hole for him to _rot_ in.

And that's fine. _That's fine._

It's a fine lie he tells himself, that he’'ll be okay in the end. That Pelor will provide for him. That _someone_ will save him. That Alanis will act fast enough. That his queen will be whole soon.

That he'll see his son again. That he'll see his _wife_ again. That he'll see _his home_ again.

(Not the one he built here, alongside the other Galaderon folks who fled that day, but the home he built with his family. The home that holds all his fondest memories. The home that holds the echoes of everything he did _right_. Bev's first steps, his first words, words, his first Green Teen patch, his first independent decision. All the love that grew there. _That_ home is the one he holds in his heart, as a dream to attain.)

Food is moss, scraped from the walls and floors of the oubliette. Water is gathered as it drips from the bars above his head when the eternal mid-morning dew collects and gives in to gravity. Patience is found by praying, hoping, wishing. _Lying_.

It will be _fine_. He will _get out_. He _will_ see his family again. _It will all be okay_.

Time is a slow procession but it takes his voice and his strength and his will and his faith. He wants to curse out the god he once believed so strongly in but he doesn't even have the energy to _stand_ , let alone rage and scream. So he sits, cross-legged on the floor of what will be his grave and slowly, surely, lets death carve away pieces of himself. It's kinder than thinking he might make it now. A cruel truth is better than a pretty lie.

It's easier to understand there's nothing left for him out there. He's going to die and that is what it is.

Time passes, unmeasured, and he is so close to relief. So so close. And he waits.

As the last bit of Beverly Toegold IV’s self fades, as the final bit of his consciousness passes on, he can _almost_ make out a ruckus going on above him. He can almost hear the loud shouts of battle and what _sounds_ like a cry to Pelor. He can hear what might be his son and his friends coming to rescue him from his inevitable end

_But that's just wishful thinking._


	10. Dog Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He warned them, didn't he? So the blame can't all fall on his shoulders!
> 
> (Guilt though? That burrows beneath what little skin he has left. He'll never be rid of it.)
> 
> (Nicole Dollanganger — Dog Teeth)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardwon: *is an enemy NPC*  
> Me: D:  
> Jvelin: *exists*  
> Me: son boy allowed
> 
> Anyway, jokes aside, I was chatting with fangirlsftw about vampires and morality and our delightful dummy boy and I had an idea. A dangerous, terrible, awful idea. So I asked them "Beverly returns to the PMP and has to talk to his mom and Erlan or Luck Dictates for the most recent episodes?" Verdict was in that pain was a good thing so y'all get this. Blame them for enabling.
> 
> "Oh," I lied to myself, "this is just me picking on Beverly again! I won't focus much on Deadeye or anyone else! Maybe Hardwon dealing with the repercussions or something! Nothing more!" Fucking liar, I am. This is 110% Deadeye.
> 
> (And maybe I'm flexing to show off my own southern roots with my good good limited third cowboy-talk narrator. Maybe.)
> 
> As someone with an inherently selfish Chaotic Neutral bard-fighter, Deadeye's motivations were so fun. Self-preservation is a wild thing to drive a person, ain't it? I don't blame him for the betrayal, the Shadowfell is a nasty place, all things considered, and Grimhawke seems pretty dismal to boot.
> 
> This next Thursday will be the death of me with TAZ and NADDPOD so oof. Wml y'all. Imma need it.
> 
> Warnings: spoilers through episode 62, offhand descriptions of violence, character death (ish), betrayal, blood, descriptions of body horror, descriptions of mental instability, moral ambiguity (if that's a thing that bothers you).

He isn't fast enough.

He _supposes_ this is on him. Mainly for fucking lying to them. Mostly because, despite _every_ bit of kindness that Moonshine and Hardwon and Beverly has shown him, he's _still_ willing to throw them under the bus if it means he can leave.

(It sits, beneath the little skin he has left, the feeling of _get out get out get out **get out get out**!_ It keens like an animal and he wonders if he really has _anything_ above the damn skeeters if he's so quick to throw kin to the wolves but _but **but—**_ )

He wonders, as one does in the quiet hours of one's life, that if he had been quicker, been smarter, been _less goddamn selfish_ , if this might have gone differently.

It didn't.

It _wouldn't_

It'd go exactly how it does.

(What is madness to a man who has half a body, half a heart, half a brain? How much of him is what came into Shadowfell and how much is what Shadowfell came _into him_? It's all shades of grey and he ain't one to argue the matter.)

Weylan and Scarlett have _specific_ tastes. Two of the three out-of-towners fit within those limited parameters. Neither of the two are the ones Deadeye cares _a whit_ about. _Moonshine_ , though, cares about them, so Deadeye puts up appearances. He's good at that. Always has been good at burying the voices.

He begs them to not go. Warns them that Weylan and Scarlett are _bad news_. He's told them _all_ about this town and its _shitty_ ways and its _shitty_ people. He's told them that the skeeters are about pleasure in the moment, _hedonism_. They don't listen.

(The darkest bit of his mind, the bit that whispers dangerous and maddening things when he wants to meditate, notes that the youngun _probably_ thought he was being noble. _Smart_ , even. Pulling them off to the side to _maybe_ win a fight that's rigged from the get-go. That same bit of his mind also notes that the big one—all bravado and lies, never told his sis that he was a virgin even when they'd been traveling together—had a half-baked plan and _probably_ got that they both were in danger. _It's fine though_ , the darkness in him hisses, _coz it all broke bad_. He was _right_. They didn't listen to him though, and that's what did 'em in. Not his lies. Not his withholding the truth. Not his inhospitable nature.)

The biggun, Hardwon's his name, talks big shit and then talks _too big_. Says some things he shouldn't. Weylan don't take kind to his lip and tries for a quick snack and Hardwon slaps him upside the head with his hammer.

 _It goes to shit_ , as it is wont to do.

The youngun, Beverly, deals damage like a _right_ terror. Moonshine and Deadeye hisself sit in the back, unmoving. _Don't draw attention. Don't draw ire. Invisible. Inaudible._ He's worked _so damn hard_ to get this far; he won't let these folks end _years_ of plotting and planning with _one_ damn bar fight!

But Moonshine is a _Cybin_ through and through and she leaps into battle with a fury that matches her magic. Deadeye remains inert and unmoving.

He _has_ to live. To _escape_. He can't take time to chase this silly dream of justice and righteous fury. He _only_ has to lick the right boots for a _little_ longer before he can unmoor hisself and leave Grimhawke _for good_. Before he can try for the Prime Material Plane again. Before he can go home, see the light, _feel alive again._

So he watches when he should help. He doesn't speak when he should negotiate. He calculates risk and reward when he should be imbued with passion and firing all six chambers.

He watches a young man die. And then _another_. He saves the one he cares about.

He watches them rise through slatted doors and barred windows. Through cold understanding and keening wails.

He holds his sister as she mourns.

(She tells him about Hardwon's gal in the Great Hall. She tells him of Beverly's mom and boyfriend in Hillhome. She tells him of the halflings and fae-goblins and Eladrin in the Faewild and the dwarves in Irondeep and the pirates in the air and the goliaths near Galaderon and the giants up north and the gangs in Smuggler's Bounty and the Crick Elves and Bullywogs up near Gladehome. Of Beverly's dad and Akarot. Of MawMaw and Cobb. Of a generation of halflings who might not know the end of his story. Of promises unkept. Of all the people she'll have to disappoint when she heads back after saving Lydia—coz she's _still_ doing that. She owes them _that_ much, _as does he_ if she has any say. And _damn_ if that gal ain't good at guilt. Make a fallen aasamir repent with a look alone.)

She doesn't forgive him. _That's fine_. He doesn't _need_ to be forgiven. Just like he doesn't need faith or help or family or _morals_.

He _could've_ been faster.

But he wasn't.

_Neither was she._

And he ain't gonna die rescuing some revenant from the new Lord of Shadowfell neither. She can figure _that_ out on her own.

Though there's a big red mark on her head now and, _well_ , boot licking is one thing but harboring a traitor is another. Cut ties, loose ends, frayed ropes that hold back hungry spawn.

Fitting, _ain't it_?

(He takes the lantern and doesn't look back, no matter how much she cries for him to stop, reconsider, _don't just leave them/us/me_! There ain't much of her left anyhow. Shadowfell does that to a person. Tears them apart and doesn't even have the courtesy to pretend to put the pieces back. And the screams are easy to ignore the farther he gets.)

It's getting harder and harder to figure what all is real but, with Grimhawke behind him, it don't matter much. He's free. _He's free. **He's free.**_

**_He's free he's free he's free he's free he's free —_ **

(And the guilt don't crawl beneath his skin or sing with their voices neither. Coz he's gonna go home at last. No matter what. They're gonna go home. At last. _At last. **At last. At last.**_ )

**Author's Note:**

> So I've finally put together the story playlist using the songs that are the titles for every chapter. You can find it [here ](https://open.spotify.com/user/12140982436/playlist/333borJLXN0LaMEsLEzZNx?si=yzFN3xuDR0a8_3vvuVTc1Q). It's a good idea of what my mood was at the time too! Especially for the antipaladin!Bev ones! And don't forget to keep being super fucking cool, dudes!


End file.
